Free Will In Restraints
by Jamie552
Summary: The weight on Sam’s chest was nearly crushing. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. Terror made his heart clench and he found himself struggling to stay conscious. His mind was screaming for his brother. Limp!Sam
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** So yeah...either my muse was overly caffeinated tonight or I was, I'm not too sure. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this one! This fic is dedicated to all the lovely ladies of the Limp!Sam community who have been so wonderfully supportive of me since I started writing for Supernatural. I think this story is going to be my "epic" when it comes to Limp!Sam--it sure felt that way when I was writing it lol Thanks again, and as always, feedback makes my day :)

PS--The next chapter is written and ready to go, so it'll be up soon! Gotta love the editing process...BLECH.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own them, I'm just playing in the sandbox for a while. I have a motorcycle and a goldfish, please don't sue!

Oh, and they're demon hunters that were raised by a survivalist marine--here be cursing (although no f-bombs were dropped)

______________________________________________________

The change was practically undetectable; their forced smiles covering up the festering bitterness and the ever-growing void that suddenly existed between them.

Only they themselves could feel it.

Only they themselves knew it was there.

On the surface things seemed perfectly fine. They still laughed and joked, they still worked smoothly together on simple jobs. But underneath it all, something in their foundation had cracked. Their fights were becoming more frequent and more ferocious.

Motel rooms were suddenly too small and so full of tension it was sometimes difficult to breathe. And the atmosphere in the Impala, which had always been full of easy conversation and companionable silence, was now so airtight with emotional strain that an hour long car ride had started to border on torture.

For Sam, anyway.

Dean didn't seem to care.

The older brother had an air of impassiveness about him that was rock solid. Sam had seen it a thousand times over the years, but had never, not once, had it directed at him.

It was an air reserved for randoms and impolite strangers, drunken patrons of local bars he was trying to hustle out of their money.

It was a bubble of indifference and coldness that Sam had always been kept inside of, close to his brother's side and away from the rest of the world.

Now it seemed like Sam was the only person _in_ the world who was standing on the outside looking in.

Because it was _Sam_, he'd tried to talk about it. He'd tried to start conversations and even a few dreaded chick-flick moments in the hopes of working out whatever problems they had, and dammit, they had a lot of them.

It was almost staggering when he sat and thought about it; the arguments, the lies, the secrets. In an effort to keep Dean safe and happily oblivious, Sam had pushed him away until he'd started pushing back…with a brotherly hurt and an angry violence that Sam hadn't seen coming.

He'd been met by a brick wall wearing his brother's face, and for the life of him, he didn't know how to make it better.

And he _wanted_ to, so badly that he could hardly see straight.

The sudden collective gasp, coupled with disbelieving laughter and a few hands clapping pulled Sam from his reverie and he focused his eyes on the scene before him.

The stool he was sitting on was only a short distance away from the crowded pool table, where said big brother was currently grinning like the metaphorical cat that ate the proverbial canary. Sam knew the routine well—pick your mark, wait for _him_ to challenge _you_, lose a few games in order to create a false sense of security…and then when the testosterone level and the bet gets high enough, suddenly tap into your hidden talent and take the guy for all he's worth.

_Sorry, dude…beginner's luck, I guess._

It was the oldest trick in the demon hunter's handbook, and Dean Winchester was as natural as they come.

And there it was. _Right there._ The indifference and the coldness.

The man Dean had been playing was nearly red in the face with fury and all Dean could do was keep on grinning, the silent threat of violence and bodily harm that was aimed at him across the pool table doing nothing to rattle his cage.

From his seat on his stool, Sam watched as the crowd around the table slowly started to disperse, leaving his brother alone to collect his winnings.

It was a two-way conversation, words being thrown from both men; but it was specifically _Dean's_ voice that Sam was used to listening for…so it was _only_ Dean's voice he heard.

"Hey man, it was your idea to make it a hundred bucks a ball."

_$1500_. _No wonder the guy's pissed._

Sam highly doubted it was the _all_ other man's idea, but he had enough sense to keep his mouth shut.

The man said something, and in response, Sam could practically _see_ Dean's defensive hackles rise. He stood a little taller, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

A few more anxious seconds passed and the breath that Sam let out when the man went for his wallet was enormous. With everything else they had going on, a bar fight was the last thing either of them needed.

Social awkwardness _and_ a concussion? No thanks.

The wad of bills exchanged hands and, as if to rock the boat further, Dean stood there and deliberately counted it. Eventually seeming satisfied, he sent the sore loser another thousand-watt smile and moved away from the table, pocketing the money as he approached.

The second their eyes met, the smile disappeared and Dean motioned to the door. "Grab your crap, let's get outta here."

The order was a familiar one. Translated, it meant "_the guy's pissed, something's gonna start, let's go"._ And it was an order Sam had absolutely no trouble following.

Standing from his stool, Sam quickly snatched his jacket and his small folder of research and made to follow his brother to the door. He felt eyes on them as they left but neither man turned around.

They pushed their way out into the parking lot and Sam let out yet another big breath. He couldn't help but smile at Dean's back as they walked. "So…fifteen-hundred, huh?"

"It was beginner's luck."

"Yeah, sure it was."

"It should last us a while." Dean glanced over his shoulder briefly. "You get anything done in there, or did you spend the whole damn time spacin' out?"

Light moment destroyed.

Looking down at the pavement, Sam swallowed hard. "The lunar cycle's right."

"That it?"

"According to the police reports I snagged, both victims had their hearts missing. _Animal-like ferocity_. Same old story."

"Any witnesses?"

"If there are, they didn't come forward."

Dean didn't say anything.

"At least we know where to start, right? The bodies were found down by the docks…so…that's probably the hunting ground."

They'd reached the Impala—Dean sliding in behind the wheel and Sam rounding to the passenger side. The engine revved loudly to life and once both brothers were situated in their seats, Dean hit the gas, the tires nearly squealing as the car practically flew out of the parking lot.

***********

The motel room was silent, almost _painfully_ silent.

Sam was at his usual seat at the small table, the laptop and several texts open in front of him…Dean was in _his_ usual spot, sitting on his bed, leaning back against the headboard with his legs crossed casually at the ankle.

The older Winchester held a toothbrush in his hand, cleaning his teeth lightly as he stared down at the magazine in his lap.

Sam wondered briefly if Dean had gotten so into whatever he was reading that he'd forgotten he was brushing.

He couldn't stop the small smile at the sight and decided to take another crack at lightheartedness. "Hey, uh…Dean?" Dean pulled his eyes from the magazine and looked over. "You've been brushin' your teeth for nearly ten minutes."

Sucking the moisture from the bristles of the brush, Dean pulled it from his mouth. "Bad breath is a turn off, Sam."

"Yeah, but ten minutes?"

He'd been trying to make a joke, trying to get rid of the disgustingly heavy funk that now always seemed to be between them.

It backfired in his face.

Either not getting the humor or not wanting to, Dean threw aside the magazine and stood up from the bed. "Fine, whatever."

Sam watched as he practically stalked into the bathroom; there was the sound of running water and then the clatter as the toothbrush was thrown down to the counter top.

Before he could stop himself, Sam called out, "Dude, I was only kidding."

"Whatever, Sam."

"What's your problem?" A frown found its way onto the younger man's face; he could hear the squeak of the faucet and then the sudden silence as the water was turned off.

There was no response, no answer of any kind.

So he sat there and waited.

Waited for the explosion that he could just _feel_ brewing in their little universe.

One thing Sam was good at was gauging his older brother's silence; he knew every possible vibe and every feeling. That moment wasn't even close to being an exception.

The silence starting to grate on his nerves, he let out a sigh. "Dean?"

"I don't _have_ a problem, Sam."

"You don't?"

There was another loud clatter. "No. I don't." Dean suddenly emerged from the bathroom doorway, avoiding Sam's eyes as he snagged the car keys from the very end of his bed.

Sam sighed again. "Where you goin'?"

"I'm goin' out."

"Out?"

"Yeah, Sam, _out_."

Sam caught his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, watching as Dean slipped on his jacket and pulled on his shoes. "So you _don't_ have a problem, huh? You _don't_ have a problem, but you wanna book the second I bring it up?"

"I'm booking 'cause I gotta get outta here—"

"We've been here an hour and a half!"

"An hour and a half too long." Adjusting the collar of his jacket, Dean snapped, "I don't have to explain myself to you. I'm goin' out, I'll be back later."

"And what about the werewolf?"

"Later."

"_Later?_ What the hell is that, _later_?" Dean didn't answer, but started towards the door; Sam instantly felt helpless. "Dean, will you just _talk_ to me please?"

And…cue explosion.

"What the hell do you want me to say, Sam?" His eyes flashed; the usually light and cheerful green deepening to a dark and stormy green. The change was instantaneous and the younger brother instantly found himself wondering what in the hell he'd done in the last hour to rile Dean up so much.

He couldn't think of a single thing.

Feeling slightly nervous but trying his damndest not to show it, Sam said, "I just…I just wanna know how the hell we got like this." Dean's face was ice cold and Sam felt anxious goosebumps rise on his skin. "We never used to be like this, things were different-"

"Your damn right things were different." The familiar deep voice was loud and angry; Sam had to fight to keep from flinching. "We used to be brothers…we used to be a team!"

"And we still are-"

"_We still are_? No, we're not. Not even close."

He swallowed hard. "Dean…I just wanna talk about this-"

"You wanna talk? We _are_ talking!"

"I'm talking, you're shouting."

"You want me to talk? Fine-" As if needing something to do with his hands—to stop himself from decking his little brother in the face—Dean stripped off his jacket and threw it violently to the bed. Sam couldn't contain a flinch that time. "You wanna know why things are different?"

"Dean-"

"Things are different because while I was gone? You turned into a demon's bitch. She calls, you go runnin'…she shows up, you follow her lead, screw what I think about it. You're sneakin' outta here in the middle of the damn night, thinkin' you're all slick. Lemme tell you, Sam, you're not as smooth as you think."

Sam at least had the sense to look ashamed; he pulled his eyes away from his brother's furious face and looked down as he sheepishly started picking at the gouged surface of the table.

"You don't trust me anymore with the shit you're runnin', hell, half the time I have no freakin' _idea_ what you're up to-"

"I told you what I'm doing with Ruby."

"You mean besides bangin' her?"

_Yeah. Ouch._

Sam took a deep, measuring breath and shook his head. "I told you—she's helping me find Lilith."

"Helping you find Lilith. Yeah, ok. Was that before or after she talked you into her pants?"

"She didn't _talk_ me into anything, Dean."

"Oh, so it was _your_ choice to have that little human/demon love connection?"

That damn brick wall was still wearing his brother's face, and Sam couldn't help but think all he was doing was bashing his head into it over and over again.

His explanations weren't helping, in fact, they were making things ten times worse. He couldn't meet Dean's eyes because of the disgust and fury he saw in the green-gold depths. And as much as it irritated him, drove him absolutely crazy…he couldn't defend himself.

Yeah, ok, sleeping with Ruby had been stupid. Not one of his more intelligent decisions. But none of that mattered. If she was going to get him to Lilith, he could forget the revulsion he felt within himself.

Forgetting _Dean's_ revulsion was another story.

Dean was watching him and he raised his eyebrows to show he was waiting. "Sam?"

"It wasn't my idea, Dean…it just kinda happened, it wasn't planned-"

"It wasn't planned? She's not a drunken prom date, Sam! She's a demon! A hell-bitch! What makes her so much more trustworthy then all the other smoky bastards we've ganked since we were kids?"

Sam groaned and nearly banged his fist on the table in frustration. "She wants Lilith dead as much as we do!"

"That's what she's _told_ you! For all you know, her and Lilith are best freakin' friends, playin' you like the gullible idiot you are!"

"Gullible idiot. Thanks a lot."

"You're trusting a _demon_, Sam. You're willingly, _voluntarily_, listening to what she's sayin' and takin' it seriously. What the hell do you expect?"

"I expect you to trust me!" There was a sudden burning in the back of Sam's throat and he mentally kicked himself; his emotions were exposed, his nerves were raw and chaffed. He could feel his own explosion brewing—while Dean's explosion was in anger, Sam's was going to be in tears and crying jags. "I've always trusted you. For years, it didn't matter what it was—you said jump and I jumped, because I _knew_ it was the right thing to do. I've _always_ trusted you. I'm asking you to trust _me_ now."

A short silence fell in the room where all they did was stare at each other. Two pairs of eyes—one furious, one tearful—locked together from across the table.

Sam knew what Dean was going to say before he'd even opened his mouth.

"By askin' me to trust you, you're askin' me to trust _her_." He slowly shook his head. "I can't trust her Sam…I won't. I can't do it."

Moisture was pooling in Sam's eyes and he tried to keep himself from blinking—the second he blinked, a tear would fall. _Hell no_. "And if she leads us to Lilith?"

"She won't. It's a game, man…a trick, to get you right where she wants you."

"And where is that?"

"As far away from _me_ as possible."

Those hadn't been the words Sam had been expecting. He found himself blinking in mild surprise. "Away from you?"

"I don't trust her as far as I can throw her and she knows it. She's usin' you…and to use you…she has to get you away from me."

"You don't seriously believe that, do you?"

Dean groaned angrily. "If that's not what her game is, then why all the sneakin' around? Why all the midnight meetings? Why didn't you tell me 'bout her when I first got back?"

"Because you'd just _gotten back_. I was too busy trying to convince myself that you were really _here_; I wasn't thinking about her."

"You _lied_ to me, Sam. Right to my goddamn face, you _lied_."

"Dean-"

"I asked you, out right, if you'd been messin' with your Shining while I was gone…and you told me that you hadn't, because it'd practically been my dyin' wish." Dean snorted bitterly and his eyes flashed again. "So don't _tell_ me that you weren't thinkin' about _her_. You were thinkin' about how to protect her from me the day I got outta the Pit."

"I didn't want you mad-"

"And you're convinced that what you're doin' is a good thing?"

"I'm killing demons and hunting down Lilith! Of course I do!"

"If you believe that it's such a good thing, what reason would I have to be pissed about it?"

Sam sighed and raked a hand through his longish hair.

He was suddenly very tired.

"I can't make you understand, Dean." He said quietly, his eyes going back to the surface of the table. "I can never…ever…explain it to you in way that makes sense."

"Yeah, because it's bullcrap-"

"No-" Sam shook his head and finally raised his eyes, in no way embarrassed for the tears that were still gathering. "I _can't_ make you understand…because it wasn't _you_ who watched your brother get dragged into Hell."

His voice broke and he cleared his throat, still shaking his head.

He was _so friggin' tired._

He wanted so badly for Dean to understand. He wanted the support of his family, the support of the one person in the world he couldn't live without—he knew he couldn't because he'd already tried.

But the fact was that Dean was bigoted when it came to the supernatural, he'd been that way since they were teenagers…since they were old enough to understand that something supernatural had killed their mother and what exactly that meant.

_If it's supernatural, we kill it. That's our job._

The words were two years old, but they were just as true two years later as they'd been the day Dean had first said them. Sure, he'd made exceptions for Castiel and the heavenly-haloed…for that _one_ nest of vampires back in Red Lodge…

But Dean's exceptions when it came to the supernatural were few and far between.

Sam had just hoped that _his own_ trust in Ruby would make the difference…

"No, Sam…I only had my brother die in my arms, kneeling in mud."

And with that one sentence, the conversation was over.

Sam's tear ducts couldn't continue it, and from the look on his face, Dean's temper couldn't either.

Sam ran his hand through his hair again and sniffed as quietly as he could. In his peripheral vision, he saw Dean reach down and grab his jacket—he didn't even bother putting it on as he walked to the door again. "I'll be back later."

And as easily as that, he was gone. The loud bang of the door shutting and the emotionally stunned little brother sitting at the table the only signs he'd been there in the first place.

Sam sat there in silence for a few minutes, trying his best to decompress. The pressure in his chest was astonishing—the insane mental stress, the upset, the anxiousness. He felt like he could spontaneously combust at any moment; like every single emotion on the human spectrum had just coursed through his veins, making him feel sick to his stomach.

But the _sadness_ he felt? That, more so than anything else, was the worst of it all. It was like scalding hot water pulsing through him, pounding in time with his heartbeat and making absolutely everything hurt.

Only his big brother could instill that kind of sensation. It was only for his family that Sam would _allow_ himself to feel that way.

Dean _was_ his family.

The stubborn ass was all he had left.

Running his hands roughly down his now tear-stained face, Sam let out a loud breath. He was exhausted and going to bed sounded like the way to go—but he couldn't deny the intense draw of fresh air and personal space.

After all, if Dean could take space, why couldn't he?

And so he stood from his chair, subconsciously smoothing down his shirt as he slowly crossed the darkened motel room. The Impala was gone—Dean having taken the keys—but a cab or a city bus could get him across the city to the docks in no time at all.

The glowing red display of the alarm clock beside Dean's bed announced cheerfully that it was just after four in the morning. Sam knew he _should_ get some sleep, try to relax his over-active brain and take the time to slow his mind down. But he knew that he wouldn't be able to. After a conversation like that, it would be next to impossible.

Grabbing his own jacket from its place on his bed, he made quick work of slipping it on. His favorite handgun was sitting there as well, just inside his duffel, and he grabbed it, ejecting the magazine to reassure himself that it was loaded with silver bullets…just in case.

He loaded the full clip back into the gun with a gratifying click, releasing the slide and loading a round into the chamber. Then, as Dean had taught him, he set the safety before stashing the gun in the waistband of his jeans.

_You don't wanna be shootin' off one of your butt-cheeks, Sammy. An ass that's out of proportion will make you the butt of some really bad jokes. The _butt_ of bad jokes, get it?_

Sam couldn't help but chuckle to himself, hearing the voice of a seventeen-year old Dean clearly in his mind.

That had been the day Sam had been given his very first nine millimeter Beretta. He'd been given the gun when he was thirteen…he was a perfect shot by the time he was fourteen.

Grabbing the spare room key, he shoved it into his pocket for safe keeping along with the hand-drawn map of the city docks he'd made earlier that afternoon. He had a trail in his mind and if he was lucky he'd be able to make some leeway in their investigation.

If a werewolf was hunting down there, there was _bound_ to be clues…a path of some kind he could follow.

Their plan was to go directly to Bobby's—only a little over an hour away—once the wolf was taken care of. Sam was longing for the routine of Bobby's house, the feeling of lightness that overcame him the second he crossed the rickety old doorstep. The older hunter was the closest thing the brothers had to a father, and they loved him as such. With things the way they were with Dean, Bobby's company would make all the difference.

Ensuring once more he had his key, his map, his gun and enough money for either bus _or_ cab fare, Sam quickly wrote a note for Dean and then left the room, pulling the door gently closed and locking it behind him.

**********************

He brought the Impala to a gentle stop right outside their room door and then sat there for a moment, letting the engine idle. The familiar sound calmed him—most of the time it gave him pleasure-goosebumps, but at that moment he needed an anchor that _wasn't_ his little brother. He needed an anchor _because_ of his little brother.

It was a rare occurrence, but it had started happening more and more often.

Dean was feeling guilty.

The short drive around town hadn't done a damn thing to make him feel better. Any philosophy that driving would clear his mind was completely blown out of the water; he had a headache, so he couldn't listen to music…and the silence had only given him _more_ time to think about the horrendous conversation he and Sam had had before he left.

He was starting to piss himself off.

With an angry sigh, he cut the engine and then pushed his door open. The parking lot of the motel was quiet as he slid from the car; he could hear a dog barking somewhere off in the distance, but that was it. No crickets, no nothing. It was too damn cold.

Dean noted as he approached the door that there was no light shining through the curtains in the window. He wasn't surprised that Sam had fallen asleep; the kid read when he was supposed to be sleeping, and when he finally _did_ manage to sleep, he was usually up and out the door at some ridiculously ungodly hour.

The term "insomniac" flashed through Dean's mind, and he shook his head, unlocking and opening the door as quietly as he could.

The room was just as eerily silent as the parking lot. There was the distinct hum of the ancient heater in the far corner, but there was no Sammy-is-sleeping sounds; there was no gentle snoring or even breathing, no restless tossing and turning, no shifting underneath the blankets.

Dean's big-brother-spidey-sense was tingling and without hesitation he reached across and flipped the light switch. The room was suddenly bathed in light and his eyes went immediately to the bed on the far side of the room.

The bedding was untouched.

"Sam?"

His voice was anxious and unsure as he continued to study the room.

The bathroom light was off, the door wide open—no Sammy there.

The pathetic excuse for a kitchen was nearly too small for the kid to _stand_ in, let alone hide in—no Sammy there, either.

And Dean very much doubted his little—but truly enormous—brother was hiding under the bed.

"Sammy?"

Making his way into the room, his eyes scanned over Sam's untouched bed again. And there, thank Christ, was a small piece of paper propped up against the alarm clock.

Dean lunged for it, his eyes trailing across the words written in Sam's handwriting.

_Gone down to the docks, Addison and Highway Seven – 4:12._

He immediately redirected his eyes to the glowing digits of the alarm clock.

4:27.

The relief Dean had felt when he'd seen the note was completely erased as the dots connected in his mind—Sammy was gone…he was going down to the docks, where they were sure a werewolf was hunting.

The annoying little bastard had gone…to a werewolf's hunting ground…_on his own_.

Dean's fingers clenched and before he knew it, the note was crumpled in his tight fist.

Well…

As if he didn't have _enough_ reasons to beat the tar out of his pain in the ass little brother.

The list just kept on growing.

***************************

The air was damp and cold as he walked. The two layers he was wearing were completely pointless—goosebumps had long since erupted on his skin and he pulled his jacket tighter around himself.

The twenty-five minute cab ride down to the industrial section of town had been interesting enough. Sam was sure they'd taken the longest route possible through the downtown core; he remembered Dean saying the trip could be made in just over ten minutes if they stuck to the back roads. _Two lanes, no streetlights, hardly any traffic._

The steadily growing meter attached to the dash was just _one_ of the reasons he preferred buses.

The disgustly gross cherry-pop-it scent contraption--with a smell that _in no way_ could be considered air freshener--was another reason.

The driver had been genuinely curious as to why such a _'decent looking young man_" was heading into that part of the city at such a late hour. Sam had pulled an explanation out of his ass, ignoring the skeptical eyes staring at him in the rear-view.

_Fantastic. Now the cab driver thinks I'm a junkie._

Oh well. People had thought worse of him in his lifetime.

Sam had been walking for only a few short minutes. Passing under a small wall lamp attached to the side of the building, he managed to check his watch--**4:42am.**

He tried to keep his footsteps as silent as possible, not exactly sure who—or _what_—was around. The weight of his gun against his lower back was incredibly comforting. He'd already reached back to let his fingertips lightly graze the cold metal, just to reassure himself that it was there…loaded and ready if he needed it.

It was almost funny to think of how any _other_ person in the world would feel with a nine millimeter automatic sitting against the small of their back.

Sam doubted very much _incredible comfort_ was one of the emotions they'd experience.

As he rounded a corner of a dark and presumably deserted warehouse, he froze at the familiar feeling. The prickling of the back of his neck, goosebumps exploding again but for a whole different reason.

He was instantly aware of it.

He was being watched.

Thirty meters back, crouching behind a dumpster on his left.

Yeah, there was _something._

Trying to gain control of his suddenly skyrocketing anxiety, Sam finally made his way around the corner. As soon as he was out of sight of the dumpster, he whipped his hand back and grabbed his gun—as silently as possible, he removed the safety and readjusted the slide, making sure the first round was loaded.

A single soft click from the gun echoed into the silence and Sam bit the inside of his lip, mentally cursing up a storm. Whatever was following him—if it was worth any of it's weight in salt—would now know he was armed.

If it _was_ the wolf, the only thing that knowledge would accomplish would be increasing the savagery of the initial attack.

Element of surprise. Eliminate the weapon. Incapacitate the victim. Go for the jugular.

_Dammit._

His theory was proven correct.

The violence and the suddenness of the assault was in no way lost on him. He hit the ground, his shoulder slamming into the rough concrete before he'd even realized what had happened.

He knew within the depths of himself that it was the wolf. There was long brown hair…electric blue eyes, pupils contracted…a mouth full of ragged, sharp, bloodstained teeth.

The weight on Sam's chest was nearly crushing. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. Terror made his heart clench and he found himself struggling to stay conscious.

The strangled voice inside his head was loud, screaming, _begging_ to be let out. But even though his lips were slightly parted, no sound came out. Just the harsh, ragged inhalation and release of his panic-striken breathing. He felt his face twist in agony and he fought to scream, fought to make _any_ kind of sound.

_Dean!_

There was a flash of mangy teeth and claw, a blinding pain, and then nothing but darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Here's chapter 2! Thanks to everyone who's left the wonderful reviews, and to everyone who added this story to their alerts and their favorites! Chapter 3 is in the works and will either be posted later on tonight or tomorrow. This one's a little shorter, but I hope you like it :)

**Disclaimer:** Still just playing in the sandbox with our boys...

PS--I did some minor editing of the first chapter. Nothing major, just added a couple things so that the timing made a bit more sense. There's no need to re-read anything, just letting you know :)

_____________________________________________________

**4:42am**

Dean glanced at his watch as he brought the car to a screeching halt, pushing open his door and quickly climbing out.

The drive from the motel had taken him just under fifteen minutes—speed limits had been ignored, he'd flown passed anything that had gotten in his way and had avoided the downtown routes and the street lights with all he had. While driving, he'd tried his best to scan the sidewalks and the occasional side streets for any sign of the inhumanly tall little brother with the floppy brown hair, but there'd been nothing.

And Dean couldn't ignore the rock that was now sitting in the very pit of his stomach.

Something was wrong. Something had happened or was _going_ to happen.

He could _feel_ it.

Pulling his gun from its usual spot under his jacket, he immediately switched off the safety and raised it in tandem with his flashlight. The small beam of light swept back and forth in front of him, searching for any kind of movement…listening for any kind of sound.

Their dad had told them for years that any good hunter could walk into a room and instantly _know_ whether or not there was a threat, supernatural or otherwise. The feeling was almost like a physical contact, a cold caress of the skin that brought on goosebumps…a presence that, when felt, practically demanded alertness. A _hunter's sixth sense_, he'd called it.

It had taken a long time for Dean to get to that point, even longer for Sam; but now that he had that sense, it was like an extension of himself.

His alter-ego—the hunter—was waiting just under the surface and Dean let it take control. His movements, his instincts, what he saw and how he interpreted it. It was all learned and practiced, honed to a near perfection that had made hunters twice his age quake in their boots.

He was a predator looking for a predator.

He was a big brother looking for a little brother, the very reason for his existence.

There was something around, he knew it. He could practically smell it—the hunger, the nearly uncontrollable desire for violence and torn flesh.

Everything supernatural had a stench, a truly horrible reek, as if nature itself was protesting it's very existence. Werewolves, vampires, malevolent spirits…they weren't _supposed_ to exist. This was why _hunters_ existed. To restore the balance and to protect the naive population from the evil sons of bitches who lurked and squatted in the dark.

When children go through that phase growing up where they're afraid of the dark, the standard words of comfort for parents to say is _"There's nothing in the dark that isn't there when you turn on the light." _

Hunters as a community knew how ridiculous that statement was. There were _always_ things in the dark.

And that's when he heard it.

A loud and animalistic snarl, followed by the sound of flesh meeting concrete. There was no screaming, no calling for help…no nothing.

And suddenly, Dean knew.

_Sam._

He was moving before he was even aware of it, tearing around the crumbling corner of the warehouse with his eyes searching frantically and wildly.

As soon as he rounded the corner, he saw it—a slim figure with long brown hair and sharp claws, emitting some of the most terrifying sounds a person could ever hear. And there, lying on the ground, with the wolf perched entirely on his chest, was Sam.

"Hey!"

Dean's sharp voice rang out and the wolf whipped around, it's chest heaving with each breath and it's eyes flashing dangerously. The two locked eyes—the creature and the big brother—both silently daring the other to make the first move.

The fresh blood that was dripping down the monster's chin was enough to make the monster inside_ Dean_ rear it's head and roar.

The gun was raised, the trigger was pulled, the first shot was fired…the clip was eventually emptied.

The body of the young female werewolf jerked violently as the shots made contact with her chest, her mouth open in a silent cry of either surprise or pain, Dean didn't know or care.

She hit the ground bonelessly and after half a second's hesitation—watching to make sure she stayed down—Dean took off across the asphalt, dropping to his knees and practically skidding to Sam's side.

"Sam!"

At the sight before him, Dean stepped off the edge of panic and crashed, head first, right into hysteria.

Sam was clearly unconscious, his head rolling to the side and giving Dean a perfect view of the raggedly torn wound in his left shoulder. With Sam's blood-soaked shirt it was impossible to tell whether the wound was a bite mark or a claw mark, but it didn't matter. There'd been fresh blood dripping down the werewolf's chin.

It clunked into place painfully in the recesses of Dean's mind.

A werewolf.

Fresh blood.

A gaping wound in Sam's shoulder that was _too_ torn and _too_ ragged.

A paleness to the younger man's skin that was terrifying.

_Oh God, no._

Dean forced himself to swallow the bile that he could feel rising in his throat. His panic was getting the best of him and he _had_ to pull it together. _Sam_ needed him to pull it together.

With a trembling but sure hand, Dean pressed two of his fingers to the pulse point in Sam's throat and waited with a nearly painful anxiety.

_Thump._

_Thump._

And there it was, the absolutely beautiful feeling against his fingertips.

Swallowing hard again and fighting back tears, he placed a hand on either side of Sam's face and turned his head to face him. "Sammy? Hey—" Running the pad of his thumb gently underneath one of Sam's sunken eyes, Dean nearly exploded with relief when there was the smallest flutter under the bruised-colored eyelids. "Come on, man, look at me."

It only took three seconds for Sam to slowly and painfully open his eyes.

But Dean would remember it as the longest three seconds of his life.

The heartbreakingly familiar hazel eyes were cloudy and terrified and the second they focused on Dean's face, they filled with tears.

Intense relief.

It was unabashed and blatant.

"Dean..."

Sam's voice was barely a whisper in the fading darkness. The sound of his baby brother breathing his name in such a way broke the dam that had been designed to hold in his tumultuous emotions; a single tear hung precariously from Dean's lower lashes.

And never before, since Sam was a child, had Dean's name on his lips sounded so much like a plea. A plea that said, _"It hurts."_

He gave a quick nod, his fingers expertly catching a tear as it leaked from the corner of Sam's eye. "I know, Sammy. I'm gonna get you outta here."

"Wolf?"

Turning to look just a few feet to his left, Dean cautiously scanned the still body of the werewolf again. The striking blue eyes were wide and lifeless, the long claws had retracted back into perfectly manicured fingernails, and the pointed teeth had withdrawn back to their normal size.

Her bloody chest was completely riddled with bullet holes, a physical testament to Dean's murderous rage.

She couldn't have been older than twenty.

Looking back down to Sam and pushing away whatever guilt he might have been feeling, Dean reassured him gently, "Blown away. It's done."

The younger brother almost seemed to deflate in obvious relief and his eyes slipped closed. Unconsciousness was calling and Dean gave him a gentle shake, "Sam, hey, open your eyes." The hazel orbs were slowly pulled open again and Dean shook his head, voice serious. "Don't fall asleep, you hear me?"

The idea of Sam falling into slumber, whether asleep or passed out, was completely terrifying for two reasons.

One, after suffering such an injury it was important to keep a victim awake and responsive, at least until proper treatment was given.

And two? They'd learned from experience that werewolves didn't transform until after the infected person had fallen asleep. If the wound on Sam's shoulder _was_ a bite, he had to keep the kid as awake as possible until he could get them in the car and on the way to Bobby's. Dean didn't know if the transformation could take place while a victim was _passed out_, but he wasn't about to take any chances.

If he was suddenly forced to choose between having a werewolf for a brother, or reloading a fresh magazine into his gun…

He wasn't even going to go there.

"Come on, we gotta get outta here."

Trying to avoid the bloody gouge in his shoulder, Dean maneuvered one arm across Sam's back and slowly pushed the kid into a sitting position. Every puff of agonized breath, every stifled groan of pain that Sam uttered—or tried not to—set Dean's teeth on edge.

When Sam felt pain, Dean did, too.

And right now, both brothers were practically drowning in it.

Sam's skin was freezing cold to the touch and Dean did the only thing he really _wanted_ to do.

As gently as possible he pulled Sam forward against his chest. The chill radiating through Sam's clothing made Dean shiver slightly as he wrapped his arms around him, his cheek resting against the side of Sam's hair. "It's ok, Sammy." He whispered quietly, carefully tightening the embrace. He could feel Sam instantly relax, melting into his chest and soaking up his warmth.

The adrenaline of it all was wearing off as he sat there, holding his injured and shivering little brother in his arms. He knew they had to move. He knew they had to get to Bobby's as quickly as possible. He knew they needed to prepare for the worst possible situation. But at that moment, all he wanted was to sit there…pretending that his already chaotic world wasn't crumbling down around him.

Manly stoicism be damned.

The preceding three years in the Winchester history book had been full of harsh words, terrifying moments, painful goodbyes and equally horrendous time spent alone. They'd lost their dad and countless close friends. They'd each had their fair share of loving and leaving. No day was ever the same as the day before.

But at the center of it all, they themselves had always been there. Both men had changed drastically since Dean had unexpectedly shown up at Sam's dark Stanford apartment four years prior. After two years apart, they'd taken the time to get to know one another again—even though, at first, it hadn't been particularly easy.

They'd grown together as brothers.

Sam no longer felt the desire to complain when Dean called him _Sammy_.

And Dean no longer looked at Sam as _only_ someone who needed protecting—the younger man was considered an equal on the hunting playing field. To a certain extent.

It was amazing how only a few months of secrets and lies had torn all that apart…piece by piece. Torn apart what had been four years in the making.

And as Sam started trembling in Dean's arms, the older man had never felt worse about it.

"Ok-" He swallowed hard, adjusting himself slightly in preparation. "We gotta get outta here."

"…'m tired."

"I know, Sammy, but we gotta go. Bobby's waitin' on us, remember?"

"Now?"

"Yeah, right now." Dean arranged himself so that he was crouching, all his weight back on his feet, and he grabbed Sam under his arms. "Can you stand at all?"

Sam weakly nodded, stuttering from either injury or cold. "Y-yeah, I think s-so."

"Just…lean on me, ok?" Dean gritted his teeth. "You ready?" There was another weak nod against his shoulder and he heaved, standing himself up straight and pulling Sam's near dead-weight along with him. There was a small cry of pain from Sam and a grunt of effort from Dean, but both brothers managed to get to their feet. "You ok?"

Sam's chin hooked over Dean's shoulder as he rested his weight. The lack of response had Dean shrugging his shoulder, effectively—but gently—bouncing Sam's head. "Sam?"

"Hmm."

"You gotta stay awake, man. Promise me."

All Dean got was a tired sigh.

So he jostled his shoulder again. "Sam."

"Mmhmm."

"Say that you promise."

"I…promise."

The hold that Dean had on him shifted from a crutch to a brotherly embrace. "It's important you stay awake, Sammy." He said softly, directly into Sam's ear. "You can't be fallin' asleep on me. Not 'til we get to Bobby's."

"M'kay."

"You promised, remember?"

Sam nodded, again, against Dean's shoulder. He knew that was the best he was gonna get.

Pulling Sam's good arm across the back of his neck, Dean took on nearly all of his brother's weight and turned them in the direction of the car. He could just barely make out the gleaming front end of his girl in the feeble early morning light and it was like a beacon calling him home.

"Gonna have to look over my baby once it's light enough out." Dean's voice was strained under Sam's considerable weight. The pointless conversation was purely to keep his little brother's eyes open—no matter how tired he was, after an event like _that_, if Dean was talking, Sam would be listening. "Dirt roads, man…dirt roads are _hell_ on the suspension."

"She's…tough."

"Still, it's a pain in the ass."

Sam's head lolled slightly to the side and, in response, Dean tried to quicken their pace.

"Almost there, Sammy."

The remaining distance to the car was angsty and worry-filled—Sam's head still lolling and Dean nattering to him incessantly about nothing.

For a man who usually had things pretty planned out, Dean had absolutely _nothing_. He had no ideas, no plans, no gentle reassurances to give. Most of the time he found the strength within himself to do what he could to make light of their crappy situations, mainly to make sure Sam stayed positive and happy. But in that instant, in _that_ situation, there wasn't really much lightness to be found.

Yeah, Sam had survived…which was a miracle in itself. But the nightmare was just beginning, Dean could feel it.

His _own personal nightmare_ was just warming up.

He could feel that, too.

Dean's outstretched hand made contact with the cool metal of the Impala's passenger door and he chuckled nervously, again trying to appear calm and collected. "Here we go, kid." Gripping the door handle he quickly yanked it open and tried to position them. "Ok, we gotta get you in here."

Sam merely made a noise in the back of his throat.

"On the count of three, you're gonna slide into the seat, ok?"

"I…don't think…I can."

"Sure you can." Dean tried to smile encouragingly. "Just let me do all the work, dude. All you gotta do is lift your leg and get it in there."

Sam slowly blinked. "Ok."

The effort the younger man put forth at that moment made a warm feeling erupt in Dean's chest—he was hurting, probably more so than what was visible on the outside. But Dean had asked him to do something…to lift his leg into the car…and in pain or not, he was going to make himself do it.

Dean once again found himself supporting all of his brother's weight as Sam gingerly tried to lift his foot. He gave a small moan of pain and he faltered, the sole of his hiking boot smacking uselessly against the doorframe.

Gritting his teeth again, Dean heaved slightly—enough to raise Sam's foot the few centimeters it took to get over the frame.

Sam moaned again. "Sorry…Dean."

"Don't be sorry, Sammy, it's ok. You're doin' good." He gave Sam a little squeeze. "On the count of three, we're gonna slide you in, ok?" Sam nodded tiredly. "Start counting when you're ready."

His eyes slowly drooped closed and just as Dean was about to shake him awake, the eyes opened again—they were considerably more cloudy than they had been before.

They had to get moving.

After a few seconds, Sam weakly started the count. "One."

Dean nodded and joined in.

"Two."

"Three."

Dean lowered Sam as gently and quickly as he could, carefully watching that he slid perfectly into the familiar vinyl seat. The cry of pain was enough to make Dean's chest ache but he forced himself to swallow. "You ok?"

Breathing shallowly, Sam gave a slow nod. "Ok."

"Alright, watch out." Without the slightest hesitation Dean pushed the door closed and took off around the front bumper to the driver's side. Sam was in the car…he was as comfortable as he was going to get for the time being…it was time to seriously haul ass.

When he started the car a few seconds later, the engine roared and growled loudly—Dean felt the urgency and it was almost as if the Impala did, too. There was no lag, no hesitation from his baby when he hit the gas; the car simply moved, lurching into action and spraying dirt and gravel everywhere as they sped back towards the main road.

***

Fifteen minutes later, they found themselves practically flying down the Interstate. Bobby was forty-five minutes away and Dean was determined to cut that travel time down as much as he could. He once again found himself ignoring speed limits, using his inherited and built in radar detector to watch out for cops who might be looking to get in his way.

He didn't have time for the law. He didn't have time to follow it.

He was a big brother on a mission, and God help anyone that tried to stop him.

Glancing at Sam quickly, he asked, "Sammy? You still with me?"

"Still...here."

"Ok, good." After digging around in the pocket of his jeans, Dean pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open. "I gotta call Bobby, ok? Let him know we're comin'."

"Ok."

"I want you to listen to my voice when I'm on the phone, Sam. Don't fall asleep and keep pressure on your shoulder."

"I won't…break my promise…Dean."

Sam's voice was so small and fragile that Dean found himself swallowing hard. He gave a quick nod and forced out, "I know you won't." After taking a second to gain control of his wayward emotions, he dialed the familiar number, not having the patience to find it in his phonebook.

He was so anxious, he counted the rings.

"_Yeah?"_

Dean nearly cried at the familiarly gruff voice. "Bobby?"

"_Dean? It's five o'clock in the damn mornin', boy. Where the hell are you?"_

"We're on our way now. There's been an accident."

"_Accident? What kind of accident?"_

"Sam went after the wolf on his own. He's banged up pretty bad." Dean swallowed again. "I think he's got a bite, Bobby."

The silence on the other end of the line was possibly the loudest silence Dean had ever heard. He could picture Bobby's horrified face in his mind; eyes wide, mouth hanging open…there would be fear in the old man's expression. Fear of what could happen, fear of what might come to pass.

Dean understood. He felt the same way.

"_Are you sure?"_

"Pretty sure. He's bleeding from the shoulder—can't see the wound, there's too much blood."

"_He got pressure on it?"_

Dean glanced over, zeroing in on the battered old t-shirt Sam was struggling to keep in place over the wound. "Yeah." Moving his eyes to Sam's face, he added, "Sam?"

Sam gave a weak nod and slowly raised his free hand, giving a truly pathetic thumbs-up.

Dean very nearly smiled.

"_How far are you?"_

"'Bout forty-five minutes. Half an hour, if I can do it."

Bobby sighed. _"Ok. Honk when you're pullin' in, I'll be ready."_

Dean nodded even though Bobby couldn't see it. "Thanks, Bobby." Pulling the phone from his ear, he snapped it closed and absently threw it into his lap. His eyes immediately flashed over to Sam. "How you doin'?"

The younger brother's eyes were closed, his breathing seeming to get shallower and shallower with each passing minute.

When he didn't answer, Dean's panic skyrocketed. "Sam!"

"I…can't…do it."

A wave of relief crashed through Dean at Sam's suffering response and he swallowed hard, forcing strength he didn't feel into his voice. "Yes you can. Only a few more minutes."

His eyes remained closed and Dean could practically _feel_ him slip into unconsciousness.

Glancing over with horror-struck eyes, Dean was panicking again. "Sam!"

This time, he got no response.

Sam was out.

So Dean did the only thing he _could _do—he hit the gas, pushing the Impala even harder than before.

The engine rumbled and roared in response, pavement disappearing under the tires.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Here's chapter 3! I just wanted to say thank you to each and every person who reviewed chapter 2. For some funny reason, I couldn't get my PM messenger to work today, so I couldn't respond to each review individually. But I want you all to know that I appreciate each and every one...they've been wonderful! Hope you like this entry and, as always, feedback makes my day :)

**Disclaimer:** Still just playin' in the sandbox...

Oh, and PS? It's gonna get pretty angsty...

*scurries away and hides*

_____________________________________________

He gave several panicked honks of the horn as the Impala blasted through the front gate of the salvage yard, leaving a cloud of dust in it's wake.

The thirty-five minute drive had been torturous; Dean's eyes flashing over to his unconscious brother every few seconds in an effort to watch for the slightest changes. Apart from a sheen of sweat appearing on Sam's forehead, coupled with an increasingly shallow breath, there'd been nothing significant.

Nothing significant _yet_.

The house came into view and Dean hit the gas again, speeding the last short distance to bring the car to a rough stop right at the base of Bobby's front steps. The older hunter was there and waiting, a black towel clenching convulsively in his hands.

Practically stumbling from the car in his haste, Dean ran around to the passenger side and carefully opened the door. With Sam still unconscious, Dean had to catch him as he lolled to the side; his considerable weight was even _more_ considerable now that he was practically comatose.

In the back of his mind, Dean could hear Bobby stomping down the steps quickly. The older man appeared at his side, tossing the towel over his shoulder before reaching out to help get Sam out of the seat.

"What the hell happened?" Bobby snapped, both of them trying to maneuver themselves into the small space inside the passenger door. "Goin' off after a wolf by himself? What is he, insane?"

"Just help me get him outta here."

"Well, where the hell were _you_?"

Dean's guilt and anger at the situation collided explosively, and his voice was a loud and angry bark. "I was somewhere else! Now _shut_ _up_ and help me!"

Bobby had the good sense to fall silent.

The truth was? The guilt over what had happened…the anger, the sheer helplessness? Dean could feel it in every single inch of himself. Flooding through his veins, pounding and pulsing through him relentlessly until he was sure he'd either implode or throw up.

Sam had been hurt.

Sam had been attacked, possibly poisoned…and he hadn't been there to stop it.

Every injury Sam suffered, Dean looked at it as a personal failure. A moment in time where he'd neglected his responsibility, his birthright…his _promise_ to protect a little brother that had been a magnet for every kind of trouble imaginable from the moment he was first able to walk.

A little brother that had been a magnet for supernatural evil since he was six months old.

A little brother that not an hour ago he'd yelled at and criticized. A little brother he'd said he couldn't trust.

Dean swallowed hard as he struggled to grab Sam from behind, pulling him out of the seat and back against his chest. Bobby moved immediately to grab Sam's feet and the two then moved quickly—away from the car, up the stairs, across the porch and into the house.

"Where's your set up?"

"Basement."

Dean's eyes narrowed furiously and he came to a stop in the middle of the hallway, pointedly staring across at the older man. "The panic room?"

"There's a cot down there, my med kit…everythin' I got-"

"The _panic_ _room_."

Struggling under the weight of Sam's legs, Bobby said, "We gotta lock him up until he comes out of it. 'Til we know for sure-"

"If you think I'm gonna handcuff Sam to a metal cot down in the basement-"

"We don't have a choice. If he's been bitten, he could hulk out any minute…we can't let him loose, we have a responsibility-"

"Don't talk about him like that." Dean snapped suddenly, his voice about an octave deeper than usual. Rage. "Don't you talk about him like he's one of your hunts."

Bobby sighed gently, struggling under the weight again. "You know I love this kid, Dean. But right now, he's a danger 'till we figure out what the hell's goin' on. Downstairs is the safest place for him _and_ for us."

Deep down, Dean knew that Bobby was right.

Almost forty-minutes had passed since Sam had first lost consciousness—neither man knew if the transformation could happen while a victim was _passed out_ as opposed to sleeping and every second they stood there and argued about it was another second that could bring them closer to something happening.

Chaining Sam to a metal cot in a cold and dark basement.

It was horrible, rubbing against the very grain of who Dean was, but it was the only option they had.

He sent one last glare across to Bobby. Dean hated limited options when they all stank.

Giving a quick and curt nod he carefully started moving again, the pair increasing their pace as they made their way through the house.

***

The panic room was just as cool and dark as Dean remembered.

When he'd first seen it—first stepped inside—he'd been awed by it. The very concept was mind-boggling. A _demon-proof panic room_; iron doors and walls coated in salt…Devil's Traps both inside the door and outside. A small weapons locker, loaded with rock salt shotguns; the tools needed to make both rock salt _and_ silver rounds; specific books and texts; rosaries and buckets of holy water.

To anyone else, it would appear criminally insane.

To a fellow hunter, it was the epitome of readiness and preparation.

Bobby had already left the door wide open for them and as they fought their way across the threshold, Dean found himself shivering.

Instead of a comfortable and warm bed in their usual bedroom, Sam was going to wake up to find himself chained down.

The metal cot was sitting in the middle of the room and they maneuvered Sam onto it as gently as they could.

As soon as he was settled, Bobby moved to handcuff his wrists. Dean nearly growled and shook his head, motioning the older hunter towards the pile of blankets on the desk instead.

His silent communication was excellent.

_I'll handcuff him myself. You cover him up._

Bobby took the hint and headed towards the desk, sorting through the enormous heap of blankets. Dean took the small opportunity for privacy, swallowing hard.

Crouching down beside the cot, he took Sam's left wrist gently in his hands. His skin was covered in a thin film of sweat and he was now warm to the touch. The older man knew without a doubt that Sam was suffering from fever—it was with both a practiced eye and practiced hand that he could see it. Could _feel_ it.

There was a pair of steel handcuffs hanging from the frame of the cot and with his free hand, Dean grabbed them. The action of locking them around Sam's wrist was painful…the action of locking the other end around the metal frame of the cot was agonizing.

His emotions overwhelmed him as he was kneeling there. The fear, the sadness, the guilt…it hit him like a battering ram and for the second time that morning he could feel moisture welling in his tired eyes.

He hadn't slept in twenty-four hours and he _felt_ like it. His entire body felt heavy; like every limb was pinned down with hundred pound weights. Dean had never been a man who was susceptible to exhaustion. Car rides that lasted for days, hunts or…pleasurable company…that ended up being all-nighters. It never bothered him.

But the previous night—the long ride into South Dakota, the hours of research, the hustles at the bar, the argument and eventually the hell at the city docks. It was all flashing in front of Dean's eyes like an old movie, frame by frame, burning through the last of his strength.

His reserves were officially empty.

A warm and calloused hand suddenly wrapped around the back of his neck, squeezing gently in an unexpected display of comfort. "You ok, kid?"

For the shortest second, Dean had forgotten that Bobby was in the room.

"Can you do me a favor, Bobby?"

"Name it."

Letting out a measured breath, Dean raised his head and focused his eyes on his brother's face. "Can you…get the other handcuff? I…uh…I just-" He broke off, his voice wavering embarrassingly.

If there was anyone in the world—besides Sam—that Dean felt comfortable enough around to let himself be emotional, it was Bobby. He didn't _like_ getting emotional but he was sick of holding it in.

There was another gentle squeeze on his neck and Bobby didn't say a word as he made his way around to the other side of the cot. With his eyes still on Sam's face, all Dean heard was the tell-tale click of the other set of handcuffs.

His anxiety subsided accordingly. His guilt nearly exploded.

The first aid kit had been stashed under the coat and Dean slowly pulled it out, snapping open the lid and examining the contents; painkillers, gauze pads, antiseptic and rubbing alcohol…a collection of small needles and black thread.

He shook his head, eyeing the needle and thread. "I don't know what do to."

"What do you mean?"

"Sammy's shoulder. I don't know if I should stitch it or…leave it, I dunno-"

"Well, let's just check it out first. See how it's doin' before we make any decisions." Striding over to the desk, Bobby plucked a pair of scissors from a coffee mug that was doubling as a pencil case and then made his way back over.

Kneeling down on the other side of the cot, he wasted no time in cutting away Sam's t-shirt. The bloody material had started to harden, making cutting it a thousand times more difficult. But as the shirt was cut away, the gouge in Sam's shoulder became more and more visible.

The flesh was torn, ragged and angry looking.

Placing a hand on Sam's fever-warm arm, Dean leaned over slightly to get a better look. "What do you think?"

Bobby sighed, fingering the skin around the wound carefully. "I don't know, hard to tell for sure." He adjusted his cap slightly. "I can tell you one thing, though…this ain't a claw mark."

Dean's eyes slipped closed and he squeezed them tightly, fighting against the tidal wave of emotion that was crashing over him.

Sammy.

_His Sammy._

A new barrage of images flew through his mind—long claws, fanged teeth, electric eyes that were looking out at him from Sam's face, but weren't Sam.

He could picture himself, holding a gun loaded with silver rounds…his hands shaking.

He could hear deep growling, frantic breathing and high pitched screams.

The only thing he _couldn't_ hear in his mind was the sound of the shot.

He couldn't hear it because he knew he would never be able to pull the trigger. Killing Sam would be like killing himself—if Sam died again, Dean wouldn't be far behind.

"The edges are too frayed. There was some real violence behind this."

The tears silently started falling, but somehow, he managed to keep his voice relatively steady. "So if it's not a claw mark, it's a bite."

"Don't go jumpin' to conclusions, Dean-"

"Jumping to conclusions? Bobby, you just said it's not a claw mark…ain't much else it can be."

The older man sighed again, dropping the scissors to the concrete floor with a clatter. "We'll wait 'til he wakes up, ask him what he remembers."

"Yeah, if he doesn't hulk out before then."

"Lycanthropy can only take hold if a victim is _asleep. _Sam's body isn't at rest…his body isn't even _aware_. Nothin's gonna happen. Not yet, anyway."

Dean pushed himself to his feet, pulling both hands through his hair.

"Can't stitch it, least not yet. The blood's clottin' so it should be fine for a while."

Dean's fury was overpowering his common sense. He needed an outlet or he'd go insane…and there, sitting on the desk, he found it.

The full bottle of warm beer exploded against the far wall in a shower of glass before he was even aware of it leaving his hand. The honey-colored liquid ran down the wall slowly, bubbles and froth flooding the floor.

He'd never been more enraged in his entire life.

All he'd done…everything he'd seen and everything he was capable of. All the horrible things he'd managed to change in the world and he couldn't stop _this_.

It was hard to think that the last conversation he'd had with his baby brother was full of angry words and harsh truths. Now, as he stood there, he found himself at the end of his rope…there was no solution, there was no quick fix. A simple hug or brotherly reassurance wasn't going to be nearly enough.

It was the type of moment psychosis was bred from.

Realizing that you'd failed the most important person in your world so horrendously that all that was left was a gun and a magazine loaded with silver bullets.

Another painful goodbye.

***

He sat on the cold concrete floor, leaning back against the wall with his knees tucked up close. The clock on the far wall announced that it was nearly nine o'clock in the morning, the only sound the whir of the overhead fan.

Bobby had left the room only an hour beforehand, saying something about scrounging up something edible for breakfast. Despite the fact that his stomach kept growling, Dean was as far from hungry as any person could be; he felt sick to his stomach and he was sure the food would turn to ash in his mouth.

His eyes had barely left Sam's still form for the entire three hours he'd been sitting there. He couldn't bear to look away, afraid he'd miss something—a shallow breath, a flutter under his eyelids, a weak twitch of a finger or a sigh.

Dean wanted to see _everything_.

No movement was too trivial and no sound was too small.

He'd spent those few hours thinking—the first memories he had from his childhood…the early years with his mother and a baby Sammy...grade school, elementary school, high school…everything in between and afterwards.

He remembered in surprisingly sharp detail his mother taking his little hand and pressing it to her swollen belly, introducing him for the first time to his little brother. He remembered the feeling of the baby kicking and the bright smile that had spread across his mother's face when he'd jumped in surprise.

He remembered looking at the wrinkly little person wrapped in blankets, cradled in his father's arms, and asking out loud, "_Are we keeping it?"_

He remembered the first time baby Sammy's large eyes had settled on his face—how he'd smiled and then grabbed Dean's finger with a strength that had solidified Sammy as _his._

_His _responsibility.

_His_ purpose.

_His_ rhyme and his reason.

It was amazing how something so small could be loved so much.

Only now, _Dean_ was the small one. But regardless of the cosmically unfair height difference, he still thought of himself as Sam's shield—the one thing that stood between the kid and everything else.

But as the wound in Sam's shoulder proved, Dean hadn't lived up to that task.

He'd let Sam die in Cold Oak—and given up his own life so Sam could live—only to fail _again_ by leaving the kid alone and at the mercy of a demon, a bitch, who's only goal was to use and abuse him.

How in the hell could one person screw up so badly?

Dean was sure that someone, somewhere, was laughing at him. The celestial gag reel that seemed to shroud his entire life was completely _full_ of moments he would give absolutely _anything_ to forget. Words spoken that he would give anything to take back.

All he could do was hang his head, mentally begging for the pounding behind his eyes to go away.

"Dean."

The quiet voice broke into Dean's mind like a sledgehammer and he snapped his head up, his eyes going directly to Sam's face. "Sammy?"

The eyes he'd been waiting to look into were finally open.

Only it didn't make him feel any better.

Scrambling to his feet, he made his way over to the cot and dropped to his knees. Sam was watching his every move with exhausted eyes, and as soon as he was close enough, Dean asked, "How you feelin'?"

"I'm tired." Sam whispered back, blinking slowly. "I'm hot."

"Yeah, you got a pretty high fever."

Sam swallowed hard, studying Dean's face closely with fever-glazed eyes. "You've…been crying."

The words were so unexpected and so startlingly _Sam_, that Dean had to smile. "Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because you scared the shit outta me." Moving as if trying to sit up, Sam flinched when his wrists strained against the metal of the handcuffs. He looked down at them and immediately frowned. Dean swallowed hard before he spoke, "We had to." Sam looked up at him. "Your shoulder…we weren't sure-"

"I know." He said quietly, his voice hoarse from lack of use. There was acceptance in the words, as if he knew exactly what had happened and what it meant. "I know. It's…ok."

"_Ok_? How the hell can you say that to me?" Dean's eyes narrowed and he leaned just a little bit closer. "What the hell were you thinkin', Sam? Goin' out there on your own? What, you think you got somethin' to prove?"

"I…had…to do it."

"Why?"

"To show you…that I still can."

"Christ, Sammy-" Dean shook his head, placing his hand on Sam's uninjured shoulder. "You don't have to show me anything, I _know_ you can do it-"

"No, you don't-"

"_Sam_-"

"You said…you can't trust me."

And that, right there, made Dean's heart clench painfully. Sadness took over his face and he slumped his shoulders, letting out a sigh.

"Demon blood…and now _this_-" He turned his head and looked down at his wounded shoulder. After releasing a breath, he said, "Don't blame you."

"You're m'brother, Sam. I trust you-"

"Don't lie."

"I'm not lyin'." Wrapping a hand around Sam's forearm, Dean gave it a strong squeeze and waited for Sam to look at him. When he finally did, he schooled his features into complete seriousness. "Look…everything I said back at the motel-"

"Was the truth." Sam let out a shallow breath. "I shouldn't have lied to you. I don't…even know why I did."

"Maybe because I'm a stubborn asshat."

The younger man gave a small smile and tried to shake his head. "We both are. Same…gene pool."

Their gazes locked and for a few seconds all they did was stare at each other—each man seeming determined to memorize every inch of his brother's face. Every shadow…every laugh line…every scar. The imperfections were rare, but each one had it's own story.

Eventually, Sam exhaled through his nose. "It's a bite, Dean."

He nodded his head quickly, looking down at handcuff still clipped around his little brother's wrist. "Yeah, I know."

"Will you promise me something?" Sam's voice was so small and fragile that Dean looked up, instantly nervous. Whenever Sam uttered those words, it was never, ever, a good thing. "You'll take care of it before it gets too bad?"

"Sam-"

"If I start to change, I could hurt you…or Bobby."

"Stay awake, then."

"Dean, I can't…do that forever." The metal handcuffs clanked against the bed frame as Sam shifted slightly, wincing at the movement. "I need you to promise me."

"Don't ask me to do that again." Dean whispered painfully, feeling a burning feeling once again erupt in his eyes. "Don't you ask that of me."

"There's only you, Dean…I don't have anyone else."

"We'll figure it out-"

"You know…we can't. There's no cure."

"There _has_ to be. We'll get Bobby workin' on it, we could fix this-"

Sam slowly shook his head. "Remember Madison?"

Dean nearly snarled. "I don't care about Madison. I care about _you."_

"Then promise me."

"I'm not promisin' anything. We're gonna see this through, whatever happens."

"You're so…stubborn."

"Yeah, well, like you said, same gene pool."

The heat coming off of Sam's skin had been steadily getting worse, the sweat on his forehead no longer a sheen. His clothes were damp and there were beads of moisture collecting in the hollow at the base of his throat as well as on his arms.

His breathing was shallow and hindered, as if he had something heavy sitting on his chest.

His eyes were bloodshot.

Dean squeezed his arm to reassure himself. "You still feelin' ok?"

"I'm really hot…Dean."

"Ok, just a sec-" Grabbing hold of the blankets covering Sam from the waist down, Dean gave a good hard yank and tugged them away…leaving Sam lying there shirtless, in only his jeans. "That better?"

"I don't…know."

"You don't know?" Sam winced suddenly and Dean frowned, immediately concerned. "Sam?"

"Dean, something's wrong."

"What?"

"My legs…are cramping."

"Sammy, just take a deep breath, ok? Probably just muscle spasms-"

The words were no sooner out of Dean's mouth when Sam's back arched right up off the cot, his arms straining frantically against the handcuffs.

Sam's eyes snapped open suddenly and they were more bloodshot than ever before.

The tendons in his arms and neck were standing out and Dean fell back onto the floor, stunned and terrified, as his little brother threw his head back and let out a gut-wrenching roar…a growl that made the hair on the back of Dean's neck stand up.

He didn't remember screaming for Bobby but the older hunter was suddenly standing there in the doorway of the panic room, horror and surprise practically oozing from every inch of him.

The thrashing continued on the cot—the straining against the handcuffs was leaving deep and bloody cuts in Sam's wrists…his now sweat-drenched hair was sticking to his forehead and hanging in his eyes.

If Dean didn't know any better, he'd think Sam was suffering from a seizure.

But as the kid let out another demonic snarl, reality hit like a freight train.

And then, as quickly as it had started, it was over.

With one final painful looking arch off the bed, Sam's body suddenly relaxed and he collapsed…his chest heaving, his eyes squeezed tightly closed.

For a few tense moments, no one said anything.

And then…

"Dean-"

Sam's voice was weak and agony-filled, as if the mere act of saying that one name had made his throat bleed.

Dean couldn't move.

The shock that was coursing through him, the sheer terror, was enough to render him frozen. He'd been a hunter for nearly twenty years—he'd seen some truly horrible things, he'd seen people suffer in some truly horrifying ways—but those things, those moments, were _nothing_ compared to what he'd just seen.

Pure agony and torture.

And it was his little brother.

"Dean."

At the sound of his name a second time, he managed to make himself move. He could see, as he got closer that the cot was now soaked through with sweat. There were even a few blood smears from the wounds caused by the handcuffs.

Moving right to his brother's side, Dean swallowed back the relentless flow of bile and laid a shaking hand back on Sam's arm. "Right here, Sammy."

"Hurts."

"I know, kid. I know it hurts."

"It hurts…Dean."

Sam was purely mumbling now, lost in the aftershock of his own body rebelling against him.

None of it made sense.

If that _was_ a transformation, why didn't it complete itself?

Sam had been wide awake, so how did it start in the first place?

So many unanswered questions that Dean just didn't have the brain power or mental strength to even consider.

He only had eyes for his brother, practically lying in a pool of his own sweat…repeating over and over again that it hurt.

Sam wasn't the only Winchester brother in pain.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** Hey all! Sorry that I was a little longer in getting this chapter up and running. Just a quick warning, things are gonna get angsty. Please, stick with it...it'll all come out in the wash. Hopefully ;o) So my PM messenger finally started working, and I was in the middle of responding to the reviews left for chapter 3 when the friggin' thing crapped out again! *pouts angrily* So...to everyone that reviewed chapter 3--whether you got a personal response from me or not--THANK YOU SO MUCH! I can't tell you how much I appreciate the support this story has gotten so far. Each and every review inspires me to keep going.

That being said...I'm SO nervous about this chapter, I can hardly sit still lol Hope you like it!

**Disclaimer:** We all wish we owned them. But we don't. Bummer.

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Sam's dangerous temperature continued to rise slowly but surely into the hours of the early afternoon.

All the usual fever remedies weren't helping; cold compresses, bottles filled with ice water pressed against his sides and under his arms, giving him small sips of water whenever he was conscious enough to swallow.

Dean hadn't expected the traditional treatments to work. After all, this wasn't a normal fever. Not by a long shot.

_This_ was something else.

Despite the numerous fits Sam had experienced over those few hours, he still hadn't suffered a _complete_ transformation—no growing fingernails, no fanged teeth, no abnormal strength. Just a loud and ferocious growl, and eyes so unbelievably bloodshot it was a miracle he managed to see anything at all.

He'd continued to sweat, which in turn had forced Dean and Bobby to consider some sort of IV to keep him from dehydration. But regardless of the extensive experience the two older men had, stabbing needles into people and starting IV drops was _not_ on the list.

And calling for an ambulance or taking Sam to a hospital was completely out of the question.

So they did what they could, dragging an enormous case of water into the panic room from Bobby's basement cellar and cracking a new bottle open practically every half hour.

One of the few times Sam had been able to speak in full sentences, he'd mentioned that he was _burning_. His entire body—his arms, his legs, his chest—every inch of him. Bobby had quietly whispered into Dean's ear that it quite possibly was the lycan virus spreading through his bloodstream.

That suggestion had nearly made Dean throw up and then start crying again.

The unanswered question still hung in the air between them, even though they'd both voiced it out loud a thousand times in a thousand different ways.

_Why wasn't the lycanthropy taking hold?_

Sam hadn't fully regained consciousness since the moments before his very first fit—when he'd asked Dean to take care of him if things got too bad or out of control. And while Dean had tried his damndest to forget that moment, it played in his head over and over again.

How quickly the pain had started, the cramping and the fever. The spike of Sam's temperature followed by the contorting of his spine and the painful thrashing and straining against the handcuffs.

Dean, for his part, had hardly left Sam's side. Trips to the washroom were only made when absolutely necessary and food and drink was completely ignored. The older brother had received several tongue lashings from Bobby about taking care of himself, but Dean had put a stop to them pretty quickly—_"Once I know Sammy is ok, I'll eat something,"_, he'd say, "_But if Sam can't eat, I don't want to either."_

Bobby had absolutely no problem telling Dean how mind-numbingly stupid that logic was.

But Dean didn't care.

Sam wasn't being afforded any comforts, so why should he? He believed that as the older brother, it was his job to stop the kid from suffering…it was his job to suffer _for_ Sam. But since in that instant Dean couldn't suffer _for_ him, he decided to suffer _right_ _along with_ him.

It would have to do.

He spent hours sitting there in the old rickety chair, mere inches from Sam's cot. Waiting for something, _anything_—a twitch of a finger, a sigh or breath of air. He didn't care what it was, he was beyond the point of being picky.

It wasn't until nearly five o'clock that evening that he finally got what he wanted.

He was leaning forward in the chair, his arms resting on his legs and his head hung simply because his head was too heavy to hold up. He was pushing nearly thirty-five hours without sleep and while he was a man that didn't rely too heavily on regular sleep, the _emotional_ strain was emptying his reserves quicker than what he was used to.

A yawn was now considered strenuous physical activity.

So Dean was trying _really hard_ not to yawn.

He didn't notice the barely there movement and if he hadn't been listening for the familiar voice he probably wouldn't have heard a thing.

"Dean…"

His head was up and his eyes were searching within a second and as his gaze fell on the pale—but awake— face of his baby brother, he was out of his chair and on his knees beside the cot just as quickly. "Sammy." Dean's voice was hoarse and rough from underuse and he cleared his throat. "Jesus Christ, how're you feelin'?"

Sam swallowed thickly and gave a slow blink. "…'m ok."

The small response sent an even smaller flare of relief through Dean's chest and he cleared his throat again. "You've been out of it for a while."

"How long?"

"Practically all day…it's nearly five."

Dean could _feel_ it.

It was the big brother in him that could sense it—the feeling, the affection and the fierce _love_ as it passed between them.

It was a rare thing for sentiment to be bared so openly. While Sam was honest about it, displaying every feeling and every tear in his overly-expressive eyes, Dean was an emotional introvert.

They both loved ferociously but were different when it came to how they showed it.

Sam let the entire world see it, blatantly and without question.

Dean kept it hidden, only showing it to the people who mattered most in his small universe.

"What's…wrong with me?"

And if there was _one question_ Dean wished to hell he had the answer to, it was that one. He wished he could explain it all away, give an answer that made perfect sense, an answer that pointed to the light at the end of the tunnel.

Only he had no idea.

And he had no gentle reassurances to give.

And, more than anything else, he wished he had the strength to lie.

"I don't know, Sammy." He responded quietly, his voice breaking. "I just…I don't know."

Sam's eyes closed and Dean could feel his heart clench at the tear that leaked from the younger man's eye. It was a tear bred of exhaustion, frustration, fear and remembered pain. And most obviously? It was a tear bred from an intense desire for freedom.

"Want it…to…stop."

Dean could no longer stand it.

He reached a hand out and brushed Sam's sweat-drenched hair from his forehead, trying his hardest to keep some sort of physical contact between them.

With Sam, it was the little touches and the gentle caresses that made the difference.

And even though he'd never admit it, Dean needed the contact just as much as Sam did.

"I know, kid. Me too."

When Sam slowly opened his eyes a few seconds later, the question in them was as loud and clear as if he'd said the words out loud. _Has it happened yet?_

After a moment, Dean shook his head. "Not yet. Your body's fighting the transformation."

Sam blinked and furrowed his brow just slightly. "How?"

"I don't know. Bobby's workin' on that right now."

It was then that the older Winchester wished more than anything Sam could help figure it all out. If there was anyone out of the three hunters who could pull it off, it was the Wonder Geek himself. He'd whip out the laptop, open _one_ research text and _bam_…half an hour later, they'd have an explanation that made sense and a solution that was almost painfully obvious, all of them kicking themselves in the ass for not seeing it sooner.

Neither Bobby nor Dean had the mind necessary to figure out something so obscure, even though both men were diligent and as intelligent as they come.

Sam just had that quality, that determined curiosity that was insatiable.

The kid was like a goddamn bloodhound when it came to sniffing out all the facts.

After a few minutes of intense silence, Sam swallowed hard and turned his head, his tired and bloodshot eyes making contact with Dean's. "Remember…River Grove?"

It took only a second and a half for Dean to scan through practically every town he'd ever been to and River Grove, Oregon, was _one_ town he'd never be able to forget.

A single word carved into a tree. Late 1500's.

A single word carved into a telephone pole. 2006.

_Croatoan_

_I swear, I'm gonna lose sleep over this one._

_I'm already startin' to feel like this is the one that got away._

"Yeah, pretty hard to forget."

"I was…immune."

Dean frowned slightly, brushing aside Sam's hair again. "To the demon virus, yeah."

"Demon…blood."

Dean didn't even try to hide his confusion.

And then, very suddenly, it clunked into place.

A sulfur-based demon virus that had practically wiped out an entire town; drove people stark raving psycho, with blood infections and animalistic violence.

Sam had come into contact with infected blood but had somehow come out of it problem free, no signs of contamination.

The brothers hadn't known how…not until they'd found out exactly _what_ yellow-eyes had done to Sam that night in his nursery.

Along with painful premonitions of murder, not to mention occasional bursts of telekinesis and mind-powered exorcisms…there was a shield, a protective demonic bubble erupting from Sam's bloodstream that kept nearly every single supernatural baddie at bay.

Demonic viruses.

And lycanthropy poisoning?

Dean swallowed hard and shook his head. "No way, man, that's crazy."

"Makes…sense."

"How the hell does that make sense? One poison, one _infection_, cancelling out another?"

The expression that crossed Sam's face at those words had Dean immediately regretting saying them—there was hurt in the younger man's eyes, a level of misery that was expected with an _un_expected kick to the pants. "Jesus, Sammy, that's not how I meant it-" He shook his head and let out a breath. "But just think about it; you're sayin' that yellow eyes did you a _favor_?"

"I've been hoping for something good." The poor kid swallowed hard. "Maybe this…is it."

Was that even _feasible_?

If so, what the _hell_ was the world coming to? Angels were being dicks and demon blood was being helpful?

For the shortest moment, Dean tried to imagine it in his mind. The Yellow-Eyed Demon; the _bastard_ that he'd been taught to hate since he was four years old.

The evil _son of a bitch_ that had stalked his parents and specially chosen his baby brother.

The _creature_ that had systematically destroyed nearly every good thing they'd ever had—their mom, their dad and their only home.

The _monster_ that had methodically dissected and removed every inch of normalcy from their lives.

Dean was a hunter—a predator—and he was good at what he did. There had been something bubbling under the surface since he was a child. An anger, an unadulterated violence and hatred that was just _waiting_ for the right outlet.

As far as he was concerned, Yellow-Eyes had created him. Made him into what he was…given him the strength and the fury to spend his life making sure that no one ever suffered the way he had.

He'd met his maker back in Wyoming and had finally paid him back, in kind, for everything that he'd done, as well as everything he was _going_ to do.

The idea of being grateful?

Grateful for the curse inflicted on his brother? Grateful for the painful visions and the tension…the terror and the uncertainty? Grateful for Sam's floundering self-worth?

_Not a chance in hell._

"Nothin' that smoky bastard ever did for us was good, Sam." Dean said quietly, spotting sudden strain in Sam's arm and reaching out to soothe it away. "Not a goddamn thing."

Sam merely watched him for a few seconds, his eyes exhausted and dull. There was an intense desire in those hazel eyes; a desire for something _good_, something positive, for once in their lives.

"…'m not a werewolf, Dean-" He whispered, his body slowly relaxing. "That's good…isn't it?"

Dean chose not to answer, settling instead for watching his purpose embodied fall back into sleep.

He couldn't have responded to that question if his very life had depended on it.

Sam hadn't eaten or had anything to drink since the sandwich and fries the night before, while Dean had been playing pool. He hadn't _moved_ from that cot in almost twelve hours.

The demon blood may have been preventing the transformation, but there was no doubt in Dean's mind that it was doing _something else_, too.

If things continued on the way they had been, Sam wasn't going to make it…that much was obvious.

The demon blood may have been unintentionally protecting him.

But it was killing him at the same time.

***

The sun slowly set that evening, the darkness bringing with it a silence that was nearly stifling.

Bobby reappeared in the panic room shortly after 6:30 and Dean took the opportunity for a short break, leaving his failing brother in the care of the older hunter before tiredly making his way upstairs.

How utterly exhausted he was, coupled with how long it'd been since he'd tasted fresh air, Dean shivered hugely as he stepped through the front door of the house, taking a look around the deserted salvage yard as he descended the rickety porch steps.

Crickets were chirping nearby and the sound of the long grass billowing in the light breeze was the only sound.

Nature, and the crunch of gravel underneath Dean's hiking boots.

It never failed; no matter how many times he did it, he always felt like a complete moron.

Taking a deep breath, he spoke the name quietly.

"Cas?"

He felt like an even _bigger_ moron when he directed his gaze up towards the dark and cloud covered sky, waiting for some sort of response.

As if the very hand of God would come sweeping down and deliver a hard and sobering smack to the side of his head.

After months of dealing with angels, and praying, and supposed _miracles_, Dean still wasn't sure what to make of it half the time. He'd never been a religious man—had never prayed or ever really been to church, except on the rare occasions the hunt required it.

He believed in Hell, having seen it with his own eyes and felt the heat of it with his fingertips.

But God? A higher power?

Dean believed that there was _something_, he just wasn't sure _what_.

Sleek and sexy muscle cars with flawless paint jobs, comfortable seats and the sound of a revving engine that gave him goosebumps. Beautiful women with bodies as captivating as their eyes; cherished, loved and full of surprises. Little brothers and big brothers, fierce protection and relationships…family and best friends.

Sunrise and sunset.

There had to be _something_, or _someone_, responsible for all the wonders in life.

_Someone_ had to think it all up.

_Something_ had to make it a reality.

But as the angel wearing a harassed-looking tax accountant appeared before him, his long beige trench coat flapping in the wind, Dean couldn't force himself to believe that the angels he'd met had _anything at all_ to do with those wonders.

They were overly righteous and, in some cases, completely cold and unfeeling.

How could they have _anything_ to do with the few miracles humanity seemed fortunate enough to have?

"Well, that's gotta be a record." Dean started cheekily, his sarcasm covering up the intense relief he was feeling inside. "Only called your name once. First time for everything, I guess."

Castiel didn't say anything. He simply stood there, his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat.

Dean quirked an eyebrow. "What, you don't feel like talkin'?"

"You look terrible, Dean."

The older Winchester blinked stupidly for a moment and then narrowed his eyes. "I haven't been sleeping."

After a few strained moments of eye-contact, Castiel averted his eyes and let out a breath; the air coming out in a white cloud. He took a few slow steps, the gravel hardly making a sound underneath his shoes. "Yes…I know."

"You know?"

"Your brother's…_unfortunate_ encounter with that werewolf is hardly a secret, Dean."

"Wait, so lemme guess—the werewolf thing _and_ the demon blood together? That's gotta shoot him right to the top of the angel shit list, huh?"

"No-"

"I guess your buddy, Uriel the _specialist_, is gonna be chompin' at the bit to get his hands on my brother now."

Castiel's face looked slightly pained. "There is only concern for Sam's welfare, Dean, that is all."

"Does the rest of your little bunch feel that way, Cas? Or is it just you?"

The two watched each other for a moment, circling one another as if preparing to throw down. Of course no such move would be made, but both were on edge…Dean especially.

Not bothering to wait for an answer that probably wouldn't answer his question anyway, Dean said, "What's goin' on with Sam?"

"What do you mean?"

"Dammit, you know _exactly _what I mean. The lycan poisoning. What's stoppin' it? Is it the demon blood or what?"

"What do your instincts tell you?"

"Why the hell can't you give me a straight answer?"

Castiel sighed, an action so human that Dean found himself blinking in mild surprise. "If your instincts are telling you that Azazel's curse is preventing the transformation, then you would be correct."

Dean felt himself nearly deflate. "But?"

"But the effort it's taking his body to fight off the infection is killing him." The angel's face was painfully grave again. "The demon blood is burning away the lycanthropy, but there's no possibility of knowing how long the process will take."

_So that explains Sam's fever and why his body feels like its burning._

Dean swallowed hard and tried to channel his anger into his tightly clenched fists. "Can you help him?"

"I wouldn't know how-"

"That's _bullshit_!" Yeah…the clenched fists weren't working. Dean's anger practically exploded. "All it'd take to get him better would be one flick from you on his forehead. So get your lily-white ass in there and do it!"

Castiel averted his eyes for a second time and bravely turned his back on Dean's furious face. The younger man was breathing like a bull and he could practically feel his temper flooding his chest relentlessly.

One wrong word. One bullshit excuse and Dean knew he'd lose it.

_Hell hath no fury like a Winchester pissed._

"Dean…I can't-"

"You tell me you can't interfere, so help me, I'll kick your ass."

"Would you rather I lie to you?" Castiel whipped around and met Dean's eyes. "Tell you this is easily reparable?"

"Isn't it?"

"Since when, Dean, have you _ever_ known something involving Azazel to come with an easily accessible solution?"

"So what the hell are you tellin' me?" Dean's voice broke embarrassingly and he swallowed hard, narrowing his eyes in an effort to make up for the small crack in his external armor. "That's Sam's gonna die? And there isn't a damn thing anyone can do? That I have to sit there and _watch_ it happen?"

"I'm telling you that for Sam to survive this, he _must_ survive the next twenty-four hours. If he somehow manages to do that, the demon blood will have overpowered everything else."

"Twenty-four hours?" Dean watched as Castiel slowly nodded and he dared to hope. "Then he'll be ok?"

"He should be."

"_Should be_? You gotta give me more then that, Cas-"

"Right now, Dean, _that_ is all I can give."

Dean opened his mouth to snark back but fell silent at the sudden panicked look on the angel's face. The entire moment had shifted and he could _feel_ it creeping up his spine.

It was the same feeling he'd had shortly after arriving at the docks.

Something had happened or was _going_ to happen.

Castiel met his eyes and said one word.

"Sam."

That was all it took for Dean to start moving, turning on his heel and bursting into the house with the force of a hell storm. He could sense Castiel's presence behind him but he couldn't care less.

He tore through the house and right down the basement stairs, nearly tripping on the last step but catching himself before anything catastrophic happened.

Crossing the threshold of the panic room, he barely spared a second for Bobby—who was huddled worriedly at Sam's bedside.

Dean unceremoniously pushed him out of the way and took his place, resting a hand on his brother's forehead. "Sam?"

"He started convulsin' again but stopped before I could call for you." Bobby explained shakily, audibly swallowing hard. "Said he couldn't really breathe right before-"

"Take the handcuffs off."

There was a slight hesitation from Bobby at the sudden demand. "What?"

"Take the goddamn cuffs off!"

The older hunter leapt into action at the sharp bark and dug the small silver key from the pocket of his ragged jeans. As soon as both of Sam's hands were free, Dean didn't hesitate; placing his hands behind Sam's shoulders, he gently lifted him into a sitting position and slid onto the cot behind him.

As soon as he was situated, Dean arranged them so that Sam was reclining back against his chest; his younger brother's head fell back against his shoulder and Dean wrapped his arms around him.

Sam's temperature was terrifyingly high and his body was radiating a furnace-like heat.

Dean tried to ignore the sudden heat he himself was feeling, having Sam that close to him. The fever was practically burning its way through Dean's clothes.

"D'n?"

"Yeah, Sammy, I'm here."

"Hurts."

Dean couldn't force himself to respond, so he simply held Sam close, tightening his embrace and starting to make soothing nonsense sounds. Doing what he could to whisper useless comforting words--_"It's gonna be ok", "Just a few more minutes", "You're gonna be fine"_.

The words weren't only useless, but they had a definite emptiness to them.

After only a few minutes, Sam seemed to have gradually rested his entire weight back against Dean's strong chest. Dean started hoping that maybe he was relaxing after the pain having passed, but one look at Sam's profile told the whole story; he was simply growing too weak to hold himself up.

He made a pained noise low in his throat and Dean tightened his arms again in response. "It's ok, Sammy." He whispered, burying his face into Sam's hair. "Just try and breathe through it."

"…'m sorry…Dean-"

"You got nothin' to be sorry for."

"Can't…do it...."

"Yes you can, you gotta fight." Dean whispered, his mouth right next to Sam's ear. "For me, Sammy— fight for me, ok?"

"Can't. Tired."

There was a two-person audience in the room—Bobby and Castiel—but Dean couldn't find it within him to care. Tears burned in his eyes, an all-consuming panic making it nearly impossible to think.

Dean set a shaking hand over Sam's heart, laying it flat. He could feel the beat…he could feel it slow as Sam's breathing became shallower and shallower, his breaths farther apart.

"Stay with me."

Dean didn't know whether Sam heard him or not. He pulled Sam's sagging form as close to him as he could, desperate to hold onto him, to keep him near.

It had happened so damn fast.

A restless, but deep sleep. The gravel crunching beneath Dean's boots. The arrival of the angel. The exchanged words and then the panic.

The flight down the stairs and the nightmare.

The terrifying heat and the sweat-dampened hair.

Sam took a breath and Dean counted.

_One, two…_

He took another breath, shallower, his exhausted body working to draw the air in.

_One, two, three…_

"Sammy, please, stay with me."

_One, two, three…_

"Just hold on."

_One, two, three, four…_

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**Next chapter soon! A virtual cookie to everyone who figured it out :o) **


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** Hey everyone! Ok, so this chapter I did a little differently--it starts off with Dean's POV (just his thoughts, something that my muse made me write) in italics...then, it's a flashback (also in italics). I hope the set up isn't too confusing. If it is, please let me know and I'll switch some things around :)

The response to chapter 4 was absolutely wonderful, THANK YOU SO MUCH! I'm currently working on responding to those reviews (my PM messenger seems happy again, woo to the hoo!).

Hope everyone is doing well, and hope you all like the chapter!

Cheers!

**Disclaimer:** Sammy and Dean belong to Eric Kripke...but lemme tell ya, if they belonged to me, there'd be a hell of a lot more hugs.

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_It's not very often that I think about my life. _

_My good decisions and my crap ones. The things I've seen and the things I've done. The different people I've met in all the small towns and big cities across the map._

_The number of women I've appreciated and the number of women that've appreciated me._

_Am I proud of what I am? What I'm capable of? Well, Christ, if that ain't a loaded question I don't know what is._

_I suppose, in a way, I'm proud of it—I mean, hell, I go from town to town, steppin' in between complete strangers (that I don't know a damn thing about) and supernatural sons-a-bitches (that I know a hell of a lot about). _

_I may not've gone to university or paid a million dollars for a supposed "first rate education", but I'm an expert in my field…and I'm damn good at what I do._

_It's true. Just ask anyone. _

_But while I'm a hunter who saves strangers, and while I'm a man that appreciates beautiful women, I'm also a big brother. I was a parent at six years old, only I didn't get the job all "official-like". I just _got it, _and that was that._

_Sammy._

_The emotional wonder geek himself._

_If there's anythin' I think a lot about, it's him. Did I raise him right? Did I teach him all I could, everything I was supposed to? _

_How to move one foot in front of the other and keep his balance._

_How to tie his shoes and properly brush his teeth._

_How to look both ways before crossin' the street._

_How to believe that if you hold your breath, the guy on TV will make the basket._

_How to talk to girls, how to make the Impala's engine rev and how to set the safety on his Berretta. _

_Did I teach him to always ask for help when he needs it? _

_Did I drill into his head that I don't care where he goes or what he does; I'll _always_ be there if he needs me?_

_Because I worry sometimes. _

_Not in a "girly, gonna burst into tears any moment" kinda way…but in an "I'm a big brother and it's my _job_ to worry" kinda way._

_Over the years I've seen a lot of scary crap. I've learned to deal with all of it; swallow it down and shove it away so that it doesn't get to me. _

_When it comes to the supernatural, I'm numb. Unaffected._

_When it comes to Sam…well…that's a whole other story._

_My philosophy is this—you mess with me, you're goin' down…you mess with _Sam_, and you might not get back up again._

_That's what a big brother _is_. A guardian, the guy that you can run to if you're bein' picked on or made fun of…the guy that'll teach you all the pick-up lines and where the best make-out spots are. The guy that'll go to your soccer games and curse at the referee. The guy that'll beat the crap outta you in tough love, but will also look out for you—anyone else touches you, big brother'll kick their scrawny asses. _

_Sam grew up so damn fast that I missed out on a lot of that stupid stuff. _

_But I guess it ain't stupid if I'm wishin' I'd had it. _

_I tried to make it last as long as I could. I figured if I got robbed of my innocence, there was no chance in hell I was gonna let that happen to Sammy. _

_But it hadn't lasted long._

_It couldn't, not really._

_Constantly movin'; new towns, new schools, new people. _

_Constantly changin'; new guns, new books, new legends and new rules._

_Constantly fighting; Sammy, fightin' for independence…dad, fightin' for control…and me, stuck in the damn middle. _

_Some things stay the same. Some things change all the freakin' time._

_We Winchesters have always had the best, and worst, of both worlds. _

_If I had a thousand years to explain exactly what Sammy means to me, I don't think it'd be enough time. The memories I have, the feelings, the moments in time that I hope I never forget, no matter how old I get._

_I'd never tell him out loud, but he gave my life purpose. Lookin' out for him and doin' what I could—makin' sure he got breakfast, makin' sure he got driven to school and picked up after…gettin' him clothes, haircuts and doctors' appointments when he needed them. He taught me responsibility before I even knew what the hell responsibility was._

_I complain about him from time to time, but in reality, he's all I got._

_He's my family._

_I _know _I raised him right, and dammit, that feels good. _

_That's my legacy. My floppy-haired, clown-footed brother. _

_And no matter how much I bitch and moan about him and all his Sammyness, I'm cool with it all. I'm one of the few "parents" in the world who can say that they have no regrets—who can say that they did what they could with what they had, and they're damn proud of it._

_I wish every day he could've had a normal childhood, just like everyone else._

_But when push comes to shove? He's a damn good kid. Chick-flick moments and all…_

_And to have that purpose back in my life? To have him around, 24/7? I can't find it in me to complain about _that_._

_I know I can't live without him. _

_I've already tried._

_***********************************************_

_There was a brilliant flash of lightening, followed only seconds later by a loud and booming crack of thunder. _

_The house was completely silent as the small family slept—the father in the room down the hall, and the two brothers…in separate beds, but close enough to touch each other if they reached._

_It was only that closeness that gave the small eight-year-old the courage to throw aside his blankets and stumble from his warm bed. The darkness in their shared bedroom was heavy and solid but he knew exactly where his big brother was._

_All he had to do was follow the snores. _

"_Dean?"_

_The snoring slowly died away and within seconds, a familiar voice, rough with sleep, broke through the blackness. "Sammy?" There was the sound of shifting blankets—Dean had sat up. "What are you doin'? You ok?"_

"_Can't sleep."_

"_Why not?"_

_Sam opened his mouth to respond but another crack of thunder, this one strong enough to disturb the dust on the nearby bookshelf, made Sam nearly yelp out loud._

_In reality, it was crazy. _

_He _was_ eight-years-old, after all. _

_And it was only a stupid thunderstorm._

_The flash of lightening that followed had Sam moving before he was even aware of it. _

_He scurried under the blankets of his big brother's bed, burrowing down into the warmth and practically snuggling against Dean's chest. "Geez, Sammy-" He said, grunting in surprise at the sudden presence beside him. "Just climb on in, why don't you?"_

_Dean's words were in direct disagreement with his actions. _

_He wasted no time in gently adjusting the blankets and settling back into his pillow, absently draping an arm around Sam and drawing him closer. "Y'know, we're gonna have to talk about this." He said quietly, letting his eyes slip closed. "It's only a storm, dude."_

_Truth was, Dean was instantly relaxed with Sam there with him. The warmth of the little furnace that was his baby brother was so comforting that he was already feeling tired again. _

_Sam was with him. Sam was safe._

_Dean would fall back into sleep without any trouble. _

"_I know…'m sorry." _

"_You ok now?"_

_It wasn't physically possible for Sam to cuddle any closer, but he certainly tried. "Yeah…'m ok."_

"_Get some sleep, Sammy," Dean whispered. "Early morning tomorrow."_

_Sam didn't answer. He was already half asleep._

_The thunder and lightening continued into the early morning, but neither brother stirred._

_There was no need to._

_Nothing could hurt them, big brother would make sure of it._

_*************_

The warm and comforting heat that Dean remembered snuggled against his chest as he slept was gone.

He was chilled to the bone, his entire body fighting against tremors and tears.

His body was _fighting_, but it was losing.

The hold that he had on Sam grew steadily tighter, as if an unyielding strong embrace would make all the difference. With his hand still placed over Sam's heart, he could still register the incredibly faint beat under his fingers…could still feel the sporadic rise and fall of Sam's chest as his breathing got shallower and shallower.

He'd stopped counting in between those breaths. He couldn't stand it.

"Dean?"

Bobby's gruff voice broke the silence like the sound of shattering glass and Dean closed his eyes, burying his face into Sam's hair. He knew that he wouldn't be able to get his voice to work so he merely gave an abrupt nod, feeling a tear leak from his eye and not giving a damn.

"Is…Sam-"

"He's still alive." Castiel's voice was quiet and soothing as he crouched down beside the cot, laying a smooth hand gently on Sam's chest.

"Cas, please."

The angel's head snapped up at the raspy plea and Dean swallowed hard, feeling the embarrassment course through him but pushing it down and away.

He was on the verge of losing what _made_ him a big brother and he didn't have time for embarrassment.

He only had time for miracles.

"I've never asked you for anything, not a _damn_ _thing_." Dean swallowed hard again, trying to keep his voice as steady as he could. "But I'm askin' you now. _Please_."

"Dean, I can't-"

"Don't say that to me-" He'd completely lost the fight against the shakes; he could feel them taking over his arms and legs. "You're not _allowed_ to say that to me."

Dean knew in the depths of himself that it wasn't the time to lose his temper, but God help him, it was all he could do. He was already sick and tired of the double-standards; the belief that if the angels needed help, he was expected to be there, ready, willing and able—but the moment _he_ needed something, the first time he literally _begged_ for something, he was denied.

The company line.

_Castiel couldn't interfere_.

"I can't do this without him. I am _nothing_…without him."

"Dean-" Bobby audibly swallowed hard and took a small step forward, curling a warm hand around the back of Dean's neck in silent comfort.

Dean ignored it, his eyes firmly set on Castiel's conflicted face.

"Dammit, Cas, he's all I got left."

If those words weren't the truest words Dean had ever spoken...

He'd lost everything—his mom, his dad…Cassie, the only girl in the Northern Hemisphere who'd made him wish he was capable of living a normal life. Old friends, new friends, acquaintances. Any roots he'd even considered leaving behind. For a Winchester there was no such thing as _real stability. _He'd been raised that way and he'd come to accept it as he'd gotten older.

But Sam?

Despite all the change and all the craziness, Sam had always been the one constant. The one thing, the one person, who'd never really gone away. Growing up they'd shared rooms, beds, secrets and meals…they'd done everything together. It's what they were used to. It was their routine.

And then Stanford happened.

When Sam had left, he'd taken a part of Dean with him. An important part. The part that knew how to smile, how to laugh and how to feel needed and loved. Stanford and sunny California had taken away Dean's sense of meaning and he would spend the next three years feeling bitter.

But then Sam had come back, and suddenly, Dean knew how to smile again.

They'd been separated after Cold Oak.

They'd been separated after New Harmony—four months alone for one brother, forty _years_ alone for the other.

_I'll be damned if, again, I let him go somewhere I can't follow._

The small whimper that slipped from between Sam's slightly parted lips brought the older brother crashing out of his reverie and back into his painful reality.

Castiel was looking at him as if he, too, had been treated to Dean's deepest and darkest thoughts. Sometimes the expression of intense thinking on the angel's face was enough to make Dean feel sick—_talk about a fried brain pan. _

"Your memories of Sam…are…emotive." Castiel spoke quietly, pulling his eyes from Dean and focusing that intense gaze on his charge's quietly whimpering little brother. "He clings to them just as fiercely as you do."

Dean didn't say anything.

The angel looked up and let out a low breath. "Childhood memories and shared comforts during life's thunderstorms. Do you plan on forgetting those moments, Dean?"

What the hell kinda question was _that_?

With a voice slowly nearing a defensive snarl, Dean said, "Not if I can help it."

There was a vicious determination in those words and Castiel eyes shifted just slightly. "You have nothing to fear."

Before Dean could lose it completely at the seemingly random comment, Sam stirred faintly in his arms.

From that point on, Dean's attention was on his brother.

"Sammy?"

There was another small movement against his chest and Sam let out a quiet breath, his entire body seeming to deflate and relax. It was a different feeling than before; instead of relaxing against Dean because of pain…now, Sam was relaxing against Dean because of _fatigue_.

Sam squeezed his eyes tightly, as if fighting for consciousness, and then—as if designed to make Dean's heart explode—there was a small sigh. "D…D'n'."

Dean felt the burning return to his eyes, so he closed them, waiting for the tears to start falling out of sheer relief.

He could cry.

He could throw up.

He could hug the kid and _never let go._

************************

"_Dude!" Dean leaned up on an elbow, frowning down at his little brother in annoyance. "Keep your feet to yourself, they're freezing."_

"_No they're not."_

"Yeah_, they are."_

_At twenty-two and eighteen respectively, it had been quite a long time since the Winchester brothers had been forced to share a bed. _

_The small house they were renting for that week only had two bedrooms—one for their father, and one for them—and since neither brother was willing to risk rats and possible tetanus while sleeping on the floor, they'd agreed to go halves on the lumpy double._

_Yeah…and _that_ had been a truly brilliant idea._

_Sam looked at him over his shoulder. "Well, maybe they wouldn't be cold if _you _weren't hoggin' all the covers."_

"_I'm not hoggin' nothin'-"_

"_Dean, I have _no _covers_!"

"_I will knock you right outta the bed, Sammy, I swear-"_

"_Look, don't blame me just 'cause dad caught you with Karolyn."_

_Ok. Stop and rewind._

_Dean's frown deepened. "That's not what this is about. It's about you havin' cold feet."_

_Settling back onto his side, Sam snorted. "Yeah, ok, whatever. I mean, usin' the Impala for extra curricular?"_

"_Why the hell not? It's my car as much as it's dad's."_

"_Yeah, right, try tellin' _him_ that."_

_The bed bounced slightly as Dean flopped back down onto his back, letting out a breath and looking up at the ceiling. "Karolyn…_really_…liked the car."_

"_Dean-"_

"_I mean, the look in her eyes was hot, dude...damn near gave me-"_

_"I get it, she liked the car-" Sam interjected, scrambling to scowl over his shoulder again. "No more details."_

"_Hey, what's your problem?"_

_Turning his back on his brother, Sam sighed. "We're leavin' tomorrow."_

"_Yeah. So?"_

"_I'm gonna miss my calculus exam."_

_Dean let out a groan into the darkness. "Calculus? You're worried about freakin' math?"_

"_I've been studying for months!"_

"_So what? We'll roll into another town, get you into another school, and bam…you'll be doin' the exam before you know it."_

"_There's a week left in the semester, Dean." Sam said in a weary voice. "There won't be enough time for me to make the credit."_

"_So…what?"_

"_So…unless I do summer school, I won't graduate."_

_There was genuine disappointment in his little brother's voice and Dean turned his head, focusing his eyes on Sam's back. _

_Dean couldn't understand the sadness over missing an exam. Maybe it was because he himself had never been much of a school kinda guy, more interested in scoping out female classmates than really absorbing whatever the teacher was nattering about. Or maybe it because he'd always known was he was going to do with his life--he'd never need to worry about higher education or stress about finding a job and living from paycheck to paycheck. _

_Hunting was his future._

_Just like it was Sam's._

"_Look, man…I know you're pissed. But just think, you'll be ok without finishin' school. It's just one credit, Sammy, not the end of the world."_

"_I need that class, Dean."_

"_Why? Not much calculus in hunting, thank Christ-"_

"_I need it for college."_

_Dean felt his breath catch and he slowly sat up, once again leaning on his elbow. That word instantly became the bane of the older brother's existence and he fought to keep his eyes from widening. "What do you mean, college?"_

"_I can't say it any simpler than that, Dean, I need calculus-"_

"_For _college_? You actually wanna go?"_

_Sam eventually sighed and flipped onto his back, rubbing his eyes before looking up at Dean's confused and equally fearful face. "Yeah, I wanna go."_

"_When?"_

"_This fall."_

_Well, dammit, if that wasn't like a shot to the solar plexus…_

_Dean swallowed. "You plannin' on tellin' dad?"_

"_If I hear back from anywhere…yeah, I guess."_

_And that's when it had started…_

_Sam's insatiable quest for independence. _

_John Winchester's relentless battle for authority._

_And Dean's complete and utter heartbreak._

_*********************************************_

After nearly half an hour of sitting there with Sam held tightly in his arms, it was finally Bobby who'd somehow talked him off the cot.

Together the older hunters had gently laid Sam back down, re-fastening only one set of handcuffs and covering him with the thinnest sheet they could find.

Sam's eyes had briefly opened for a moment or two, focusing solely on Dean's face and studying so intently that it nearly gave the older brother the fidgets.

But only nearly.

Dean had simply stared back, placing a hand securely on Sam's arm and giving a gentle squeeze. One of his thousand and one ways of silently saying, _"It's ok. I'm here."_

Neither brother had it in him to talk right then, but the eye contact and the small physical contact was enough.

It was all they needed.

So Dean had sat there quietly, on his knees beside Sam's cot, and watched as the younger man fell slowly back into sleep. Out of sheer paranoia, he'd placed a hand on Sam's chest—simply so he could _feel_ it rise and fall with every breath.

He couldn't tell if Sam was better off than he had been, but his breathing was deeper and his heartbeat was considerably more rhythmic. There was still a paleness to Sam's skin, along with the sheen of sweat and the definite fever…but those were things they could try and deal with.

At least they somewhat knew _how_.

Castiel was sitting in an old wooden chair in the far corner, half shrouded in shadows. Every time Dean looked over at him, he wanted to ask why exactly he was hanging around. After all, the angel wasn't exactly a member of the Sammy Winchester Fan Club…neither was Uriel. But despite the fact that he couldn't understand Castiel's sudden interest in Sam's health, he was grateful; even though he'd probably crack-pound the self-righteous asshat later out of sheer principle for practically ignoring the heartfelt pleas of a distraught older brother.

Dean was really gonna hate himself for that display once Sam was up and around again.

But right then, at that moment, he didn't care.

He'd come within inches of losing the only thing in his world that made his world worth having. And if that wasn't reason enough for some tears and some sincere prayers…then, hell…he didn't know what was.

A hand suddenly came down on his shoulder and Dean started slightly, looking up into the tired face of Bobby. "How you doin', kid?"

Letting out a breath and looking back down to Sam, Dean cleared his throat. "Ok, I guess."

"You gotta eat somethin', have a shower and grab a couple hours sleep-"

"I couldn't sleep, Bobby. Not now."

"Well, food and a shower, then." The older man's normally gruff voice was somewhat softer than usual as he squeezed Dean's shoulder. "Sam's gonna need you playin' at a hundred percent when he gets better."

_Sneaky old man._

In a situation like that, the only way to get Dean to even _think_ of his own personal well-being would be to pull the '_Sammy's gonna need you when he gets better'_ card.

Could Dean trump it?

Not a chance in hell.

Even though the idea of leaving Sam alone rubbed him the wrong way.

"You gonna hang around?"

Bobby sighed and adjusted his baseball cap with his free hand. "Dammit, boy, where else am I gonna go?"

Bobby was in it for the long haul…just like Dean was.

It was a family thing.

Dean's eyes flashed to the quiet angel sitting in the corner and he eventually sighed, running his hands down his roughly unshaven face wearily. "I'll be fifteen minutes, tops."

"You better be longer than that. There's some roast beef in the fridge and bread on the counter." Bobby pointed a finger at him as Dean pushed himself to his feet. "Eat, you hear me?"

Dean narrowed his eyes at the order. "Bobby-"

"Sam's breathin' is ok, his heart rate's back up…he's sleepin', but seems steady. Time to take care of yourself for a change."

With his eyes still narrowed, Dean said, "Twenty minutes."

"You gonna eat the whole sandwich?"

It was as good a compromise as Dean was gonna get, dammit.

He nodded curtly. "The whole friggin' thing."

Bobby gave a nod of approval and Dean took one last look down at his sleeping—or passed out?—brother. He studied every inch of him, looking, almost _begging_, for something to justify him putting off food to stay at Sam's side.

But for the moment, thank Christ, Sam seemed stable.

Compared to the fears that had coursed through Dean's veins only a short time before—counting each of Sam's precious breaths—things were vaguely better.

He could only hope they stayed that way.

One hour down…twenty-three to go.

As Dean turned tiredly towards the door there was the scraping sound of a chair against the concrete floor and, instantly, Castiel was at his side.

Dean blinked slowly and turned to face him, taking in the look on the angel's face.

He wondered if it was exhausting for angels, trying to remain so goddamn stoic all day long.

_You better not smile, Cas, you'll blow your sainthood._

Dean very nearly said the words out loud, but instead he just relaxed his shoulders and kept his mouth shut. He didn't have the energy for sarcasm yet.

"I've stayed as long as I can, Dean." Castiel said seriously. "I need to seek Revelation."

Dean blinked. "Revelation?"

"Orders…from my superiors."

"Ah, of course." Ok, so maybe there was a _little _energy for a _little_ sarcasm. But alongside the scorn, there was still that little niggling feeling of gratitude. Taking a deep breath, Dean took the plunge. "Thanks, Cas…for stickin' around."

Castiel seemed genuinely surprised at the words, but it was only because Dean was quickly becoming an expert at reading the angel's face that he noticed. "You need not thank me."

"Well, I'm thankin' you anyway…and you should learn how to take a compliment."

The two locked eyes briefly, and within seconds, without another word, Castiel disappeared.

Dean released a breath and ran a hand through his tousled blonde hair.

_You better not smile, Cas, you'll blow your sainthood._

Dammit, he wished he'd said it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:** I know I said that this would be up over the weekend *cringes*...but writer's block struck and threw a monkey wrench into the ENTIRE thing. So sorry for it being late, though :o) Anyway, here's the new chapter. I'm somewhat happy with it, but with the writer's block I wasn't too sure. I'm hoping the next one moves along a little better. Thanks again to everyone for the wonderful reviews! I'm still in the process of responding to some of them so you might get random messages from me over the next little while lol

Hope everyone had a great weekend!

Cheers!

**Disclaimer:** The boys and their universe belong to Eric Kripke (lucky bum)...but if he ever feels like unloading them? I'd be HAPPY to help him out...

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There was a spray of hot water cascading down his back, over his head and down his roughly unshaven face. Every single muscle in his body was loosening in the heat of the shower and it was astonishing how exhausted he felt all of a sudden.

Well…actually…he'd been exhausted for nearly two days, but it was only at _that_ moment that he finally allowed himself to admit it.

Leaving the basement panic room had been agonizing. The very second the sole of his boots had made contact with the rickety wooden floorboards of the main floor Dean had been positively aching to return to his little brother's side.

"_Time to take care of yourself for a change."_

Those had been Bobby's words just before he'd nearly body-checked the senior Winchester across the threshold and towards the staircase.

For an old fart, Bobby had some _seriously_ freaky upper-body strength.

But the truth was? When Sam was hurt—and it could be anything; it could be a sprained ankle, torn hamstring, broken fingers…it didn't matter—Dean couldn't rest until the geek machine was up and running again. It wasn't that he had low self-esteem or a non-existent self-worth. Fact was, Sammy came first. Everything else was unimportant.

It was a big brother instinct.

He couldn't disconnect it or separate himself from it.

And he would never want to.

He finally worked up the energy to bend and turn off the water, wincing as the movement stretched muscles in his back that were sore. It was amazing how straining simply sitting in a chair could be. But then he'd been sitting in that same damn chair for going on two days, and he guessed that fighting to hold down a seizing little—but big—brother who was suffering from werewolf poisoning didn't help, either.

And apart from the sore muscles and lack of sleep, it was _that_ that had affected Dean the most.

Holding down an ill Sammy who was almost twice as strong as he normally was; watching as the handcuffs sliced deeper into the skin of his wrists…watching the tendons in his neck tense and strain and listening to the mix of a ferocious growl and a pained whimper.

No man should ever have to see the most important person in his world suffer like that.

Not ever.

Dean stepped from the shower and grabbed the gray towel he'd draped over the toilet seat, wrapping it snugly around his slender waist.

The mirror was completely fogged over and after a quick swipe of his hand to clear the glass, Dean's reflection was suddenly staring back at him.

His gaunt, tired and truly miserable reflection.

His hazels were slightly bloodshot, pale purple coloring underneath and around his eyelids. He was in desperate need of a shave not to mention a long over-due hug from the unconscious nerd downstairs.

Even though it had been months since they'd last embraced in such a way, Dean knew within himself that there was nothing, _absolutely nothing_, that could beat a "Sammy hug"; not the arms of that pretty brunette he couldn't forget about, with legs that seemed to go on forever…not even the embrace of the familiar vinyl seats of the Impala.

And he decided to put a stop to _that_ particular train of thought before his emotions _really_ got out of control.

He emerged from the bathroom a short time later, wearing a relatively clean pair of jeans and a black t-shirt.

He noticed somewhat randomly that he was now down to only two pairs of jeans—the pair he'd changed out of had spots of Sam's blood staining the denim and that automatically meant they were headed for the trash.

Alongside salt and matches, _clothing_ was something they went through at almost alarming rates. Tears, rips, dirt, mud, grass stains…and something that was becoming far too common…blood. Dean knew that Sam practically averaged a shirt a hunt, while jeans for the two of them lasted slightly longer.

He came to a slow stop in the upstairs hallway, closing his eyes and bracing a hand against the wall.

_Friggin' random thoughts._

It was a defense mechanism, just like his sarcasm was. When the mind is trying desperately to _not _think of something, it thinks of everything else.

After a moment Dean released a breath and continued on his way, descending the wooden staircase and heading into the kitchen.

There _was_ a plate of covered roast beef in the fridge, just as Bobby had told him, but just looking at it turned his stomach. From his experience Bobby was a good cook, so _that_ wasn't the problem. The mere idea of eating _was_.

Sam had once referred to him as a human garbage disposal; a guy that could eat practically anything, anywhere, at any time. His appetite never went away, his sweet tooth was a permanent fixture, and he could never resist a fresh slice of pie. The flavor of pie never mattered.

Except rhubarb. He _hated _rhubarb—

"Dammit-" Dean sighed to himself, resting one hand on the open fridge door and using the other to rub his eyes in frustration.

His thought processes were so screwed up.

He wondered for a moment whether or not there was anything in the kitchen that would be good for Sam to eat; something soft enough where it wouldn't be a chore to swallow and healthy enough that it would make up for nearly forty-eight hours of zero nutrition. But apart from the ice cream in the freezer and the single bottle of gin sitting on top of the fridge, nothing stood out.

The ice cream would be for Sam. The gin Dean would keep for himself.

_Yeah, because a good long drunk is _exactly_ what I need right now._

His frustration getting the best of him, Dean slammed the refrigerator door shut with such force the contents rattled inside.

Just as he was about to try to make himself believe that a good drunk _was_ in fact just what he needed, he heard Bobby's voice drift up the from basement. "Dean?"

He could've given the old guy a bear hug for his timing.

Pushing himself away from the fridge and away from the bottle of gin, Dean crossed the kitchen in three quick strides and started down the stairs. Bobby was standing just outside the panic room and Dean took a second and a half to study the older man's expression; there was no alarm, no urgency, no terror in the familiarly tired eyes.

There was just Bobby. Calling for him in a voice thankfully lacking any panicked emotion.

"Yeah."

"You get somethin' to eat?"

For an instant, Dean considered lying—after all, Sam was the only one who could tell when he was being genuine, and he wasn't around to call his bluff. But the expression of real concern on Bobby's face stopped the fib in Dean's throat. "Don't think I can do it, Bobby."

"You're tryin' again later, you hear me?"

Dean nodded, then asked, "How's he doin'?"

Bobby moved aside as Dean approached, allowing him space to step through the panic room's door. "Awake, he was askin' for you."

Dean's eyes immediately went to Sam's face and he nearly smiled at the familiar gaze. After the horrendous events of only a short time ago—when he'd held a failing Sam in his arms—the sight of his little brother's eyes open sent a tidal wave of relief crashing over him.

The thought of Sam dying in his arms for a second time was unbearable.

"Hey Sammy." Grabbing the wooden chair that Castiel had been sitting in earlier, Dean set it down beside Sam's cot and slowly lowered himself into it with a sigh. "How you feelin'?"

"Ok." Sam's voice was quiet but sounded faintly stronger than it had before. The kid swallowed hard and turned his head completely towards Dean. "How…'bout you?"

Not having any real idea how to answer that question, Dean simply nodded his head.

Sam studied him for a moment and then in a whisper said, "That good, huh?"

The older brother snorted in spite of himself, leaning forward and resting his arms on his thighs. "Yeah, Sammy." He whispered back. "That good."

"Bobby said…you were havin' a shower."

"Yeah, the old bugger practically pushed me up the damn stairs."

A truly heart wrenching smile came across Sam's face. "Good."

Dean quirked an eyebrow. "_Good_? What d'you mean, _good_?"

"You…were getting pretty ripe."

The conversation was so natural, so easy, so astoundingly _Sam_, that Dean found himself sniffling. He was tired, sore, hurting beyond anything either brother could've ever possibly imagined…and yet he was smiling, doing what he could to make _Dean_ smile.

It felt strange being on the receiving end of something like that. It was always Dean that cracked jokes and smiled when he was in pain, with no other objective but to make his brother feel better. Sam saw through it ninety percent of the time, and Dean knew it; but he did it anyway because it was his job.

It was his job to point out the silver lining, even if the situation they were in didn't provide one.

Dean _created_ silver linings on a daily basis.

But at that moment, it was Sam that was creating the silver lining. And if there was ever a situation in their history that was black and bleak, it was that one.

"So what…did Castiel say?"

Dean blinked himself back to awareness. "'Bout what?"

"You…didn't ask him?"

"Sammy, I have no idea what you're talkin' about-"

"Demon blood."

And a few seconds later, it clunked into place.

Dean, forcing himself to leave Sam's side and make a trip outside, feeling like a complete moron as he spoke the angel's name into the darkness.

_What's goin' on with Sam? _

_What's stoppin' it? Is it the demon blood or what?_

And then Castiel's revoltingly serious face, speaking the words that would make the next day the longest day of the older Winchester's life.

_The effort it's taking his body to fight off the infection is killing him._

_For Sam to survive this, he must survive the next twenty-four hours._

Dean swallowed hard and nodded his head again, tearing his eyes away from Sam's. "Uh…yeah…I asked him."

"What'd he say?"

And once again, Dean found himself wondering whether or not the truth was the best option. Could he force himself to tell his little brother that he may not survive the night? Could he tell his little brother that for the first time since they were kids, since Lawrence, there was absolutely _nothing_ Dean could do to change the course of the future and what it could bring?

Could he tell his little brother that if he could, he'd find a crossroads and sell his soul _again_.

Even though his soul wasn't whole—it wasn't complete. It hadn't been since the last time he'd made a deal like that.

His first trip to Hell had taken away half of himself…losing Sam would take the other half.

"Dean?"

Sam sounded seven again; the age where he was trying his hardest to be tough and strong, but still curled up against Dean's side when something scared him.

Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Dean forced the words out. "You were right. The demon blood is holding off the transformation. Cas said that the blood is burnin' away the lycan poisoning. Twenty-four hours, you'll be sore as hell but good as new."

Sam blinked sluggishly. "But?"

"Nothin'. That's all he said." Dean made the snap decision to lie and put his best fake smile on his face. "Good news, yeah?"

Sam studied him intently, his glazed eyes passing over every single inch of Dean's face. The damn kid knew him far too well, so it was no surprise when he said, "Don't lie to me."

Dean snapped his eyes up to Sam's face and the two locked eyes.

There was no fear whatsoever in Sam's gaze; no worry or apprehension. Just a fierce determination to accept whatever was coming and to face it head on, giving it hell, the two of them together, just as they always did.

If Dean's own heart hadn't been breaking he would've been swelling with pride.

"Just…make it through the next couple hours." He found himself leaning forward in his chair, just a little bit closer to the cot. Sam gently moved himself closer as well in response. "We'll go from there, ok?"

Dean refused to say the words out loud, but thankfully, Sam didn't need him to. The fear that Dean could feel in his own eyes was blatant and obvious and he knew without a doubt that the younger man could see it, too.

22:49:16…15…14…13…

The countdown was on.

**********************

_When you're raised with a father like John Winchester—a man who, quite literally, has eyeballs in the back of his head—sneaking around becomes something of a science._

_Peeking around corners, stepping lightly on carpeting and floorboards, avoiding that specific step because you just _know_ it creaks like a son of a bitch. _

_They're all tricks learned with adolescence, and because he was such a shit disturber to begin with, Dean Winchester already knew all of those tricks (and then some) by the time he turned twelve. _

_At sixteen (going on twenty-seven), sneaking around under his father's nose had become a regular thing for the older Winchester brother. _

_A night out with a couple of his buddies here…a night out with Meaghan Wilcox there—the recently obtained driver's license and the family Chevy practically made the entire free world Dean's oyster. _

_But he was smart about it._

_When he knew ahead of time that he was going to be home past curfew—insert detailed image of Meaghan's legs __here_—_he forced himself to leave the beloved car in the driveway and/or parking lot. It nearly killed him to walk away from it, but the rumble of the engine would serve as auditory evidence should his dad still be awake enough when Dean finally made it home after two in the morning._

_And any kind of evidence, even auditory, was to be avoided at all costs._

_There was only one other person who knew of his late night exploits. _

_And that was Sammy._

_Acting as the "inside man", Sam made sure to keep the front door unlocked and the bedroom door open just a crack, so the returning fugitive could find his way in the dark. _

_He usually forced himself to wait up, refusing to move from his chair beside the door until Dean walked through it. And as much as he wished he could find his little brother irritating, Sammy, in his own way, was Dean's wingman. _

_The kid may not have agreed with his older brother staying out so late, but he did what he could to help out—all the while, Dean knew, silently wishing he could go out, too._

_The routine was practiced and discussed in detail, so Dean nearly yelped out loud when he went to push his way into his and Sam's bedroom, only to find the door locked, nearly smacking his face off the rough wood. _

_His heart rate spiked and he whipped his head around, his eyes immediately going to the closed door of his dad's bedroom. _

_There was no movement, no sound. Just the eerie silence of a quiet house. _

_Releasing a breath, Dean very gently knocked with one knuckle. "Sammy?" He whispered, moving closer to the door. "Sam?"_

_For a few moments there was only silence. But then, suddenly, there was a shuffling behind the door and a little muffled voice said, "Dean?"_

"_Yeah, it's me. Open the door."_

_There was the sound of the lock being turned and then, very slowly, the door opened just a crack. A familiar hazel eye peered out and then moved aside allowing Dean the space to enter the room. _

_And he did quickly, shedding his jacket as he went. "Why'd you lock the door? You _never_ lock the door."_

_It was completely unexpected. _

_The impact against his back was jarring but when two little arms appeared, snaking around him with hands clasping over his stomach, Dean allowed his heart to calm. Sam was hugging him from behind and squeezing his middle a hell of a lot tighter than a twelve year old should be able to. _

_He could feel his little brother's face pressing directly into his lower back and he couldn't help but frown. "What's the matter, Sammy?"_

_For a moment Sam was silent. But then, in his little voice, he muttered, "Nothin'."_

"_Nothin'? What d'you mean, nothin'?"_

"_Just glad you're back."_

_Dean's frown slowly smoothed away in response to the words and he raised his hands to rest gently over Sam's. _

_He'd made the decision earlier that night to go out and even though he would never admit it—not to his buddies, not to their dad and _definitely_ not to Meaghan—the anxiety he felt when away from the little dude was nearly suffocating. _

_And he always felt that way, too. Didn't matter where he was or what he was doing._

_His mind was always with Sam. _

_He'd had people (girls and fast friends, especially) tell him that the closeness he had with his brother was strange. In _real_ society, apparently it was uncommon for older and younger siblings to spend so much time together especially at that age. _

_But Dean had never seen it that way. Of all the people he'd met in all the places he'd been to, Sam was the only person he could stand to be around…Sam was the only person Dean was capable of missing. _

_Truth was, they were all they had. They were used to each other, their funny habits and their annoying ones; Dean's light snores and Sam's endless tossing and turning…the way Dean laughed out loud at horror movies while Sam spent the entire time huddled under a blanket, snuggled against his older brother's side._

_The fact that little Sammy knew Metallica's "Enter Sandman" completely off by heart, while Dean had absolutely _no_ idea when the kid had taken the time to learn it._

_Dean cleared his throat lightly and turned his head to look over his shoulder. "Yeah, me too."_

"_Really?"_

"_Yeah…really."_

_And the satisfied little smile that Dean just _knew_ was on Sam's face was practically like a physical presence in the room. _

_Ok, seriously, when the hell had the kid gotten so damn strong?_

**************

Dean could practically remember the ache in his ribs from Sam's tight embrace that day. The feeling of his little brother's face snuggled into his back, the warmth and the affection that had been so blatant it had made an older boy's chest hurt.

There'd been an innocence to Sam back then. A blissful purity that Dean had tried his best to protect and nurture throughout the early years.

But like everything else breakable and fragile in their lives, it had been taken apart.

Too damn quickly.

Sam in a way still had some of that innocence left. The guy that, in spite of everything that had been cruelly handed to him, had managed to retain a kindness and decency that defied all logic.

He was the best person Dean knew. Hunters, civilians, demons and angels included.

20:36:45…44…43…42…

Before Hell, time had seemed to slip through their fingers. The more they fought to stay together, the faster the universe itself had seemed to work to tear them apart.

Dean knew that there was a fifty-fifty chance that the twenty-four hours would end happily.

His brother's life virtually relied on the flip of a coin.

Heads he lives, tails he dies.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note:** Hey everyone! Ok, so this chapter has been done for nearly three days but for some reason I kept getting error messages whenever I tried to post it. But thankfully, things seem to be up and runnin' again! Hope everyone is doing well and that you enjoy this chapter. I'm not too sure how much is left in this story--I'm thinking either one or two more entries--but we'll see how it goes, I guess.

Thanks to everyone for leaving the absolutely wonderful reviews! :o) I appreciate each and every one more than I could ever say.

**Disclaimer:** Comin' up on season 5 and I still don't own either Sammy or Dean. Major...MAJOR...bummer.

_________________________________________________________________________

Time was strange inside the rickety old house.

For one Winchester brother, it absolutely dragged. His attention was split between two things—his little brother and the quietly ticking clock on the far wall.

For the other, time was virtually non-existent. He wasn't watching the clock or agonizing over the passing hours. He was simply lying there, willing his body to relax and trying to ignore the fact that every single inch of him felt burned and scorched.

At one point during the night Bobby had dragged another chair down into the panic room from the kitchen up above and within only a few moments he'd promptly fallen asleep in it—his chin relaxing into his chest, his grease-covered baseball cap askew.

Dean had watched the older man fondly, wishing for only a moment that he himself was capable of falling asleep.

His limbs, his muscles, his spirit. Every single inch of him was exhausted.

"Halfway there?"

The familiar voice floated up into the silence and Dean shifted his eyes to the also familiar face.

As the hours had passed, Sam and gotten more and more lucid during the few times he'd been awake. All logic pointed to that fact being a positive thing; after all, being coherent following a broken fever was under normal circumstances a step in the right direction.

But Dean wasn't pretending to understand any of what was going on underneath his brother's skin.

He was an expert on the supernatural—on how to track it, hunt it, understand it and kill it—but the situation he found himself in was way beyond him.

It was bigger than him.

12:45:54…53…52…51...

Clearing his throat, Dean nodded. "Yeah…just about. How are you feelin'?"

"Fantastic."

"Sam."

The younger brother turned his head slightly, straining one arm against the handcuffs as he moved. Dean knew that the expression on his face was clear—_not the time for jokes._ "Worse than fine, better than dead."

"I guess that's a good thing."

"Better than dead _is_ a good thing." Sam smiled only slightly. "I've felt dead before, it sucks."

The attempt at humor was for his benefit, Dean knew, but the only thing it was doing was making him feel ten times worse.

The last thing in the world that he needed was to be reminded of what happened the last time Sam had died.

It brought on memories of a still Sam held tightly in his arms, surrounded by cold, mud and pain…then, it sent him tumbling into the memories of making his deal and being dragged into hell, where he'd been reduced to something worse than what he hunted…which brought him right back around to waking up in that pine box, being reunited with Sam and then discovering that his brother was sinking into the deep and dark recesses himself.

It was all connected.

Dean, Sam, Bobby, their father, even Castiel…the rest of humanity.

They were all part of it.

And they were all trapped by it.

"What's the matter?"

Dean swallowed and looked down into Sam's face—his genuinely confused face—and not for the first time he wished that their lives had been different.

Especially Sam's.

The kid was so goddamn smart and he had so much to offer the world; compassion, interest, unbelievable talent. But instead he was practically living in a car, spending his nights cleaning firearms and thumbing through research texts.

Sam_ should_ have been living in a house in a peaceful suburb somewhere, raising a couple of adorable floppy-haired kids just like him and romancing a beautiful wife…all the while, calling his pain in the ass older brother daily and arranging visits whenever the hunter was in town.

Dean knew he couldn't live without hunting.

But Sam? He deserved to _live_. Period.

"Dean?"

Snapping out of his reverie, Dean shook his head. "Nothin' new." He cleared his throat. "Look uh…you take it easy, ok? Rest for a bit."

"Where're you going?"

"I gotta…grab somethin' from the car, I'll be right back."

"Dean-"

"It's ok, Sammy." Dean sent a small smile, that didn't even come close to reaching his eyes, and slowly stood from his chair. Settling his gaze on the old hunter snoring softly in the other chair, he called out, "Bobby?"

There was no reaction at all.

So Dean tried again.

"Bobby!"

Bobby stirred and his eyes shot open, looking for and immediately finding Dean. As he shifted himself to sit up straighter, he raised a hand and adjusted his crooked baseball cap.

"You mind sittin' with Sam for a few minutes? I gotta run out to the car."

"Everythin' ok?"

"Yeah, everything's fine."

Bobby stood from his chair and let out a sigh, shuffling over to sit beside Sam's cot.

After sending another look to Sam, Dean said, "Be back soon.", and quickly left the room, walking through the basement and taking the stairs two at a time.

He was walking past the doorway to the kitchen when the familiar figure caught his eye.

There, leaning back against the counter, was Castiel.

Another record had been set; the angel had shown up _before_ Dean had called for him. So he either arrived too early or too late.

Dean swore to himself that if he somehow became an angel one day, he'd be punctual.

"How is Sam?"

The angel's deeply rich voice drifted across the kitchen and Dean turned into the doorway, tiredly leaning against the frame. "Better."

"You're feeling better, as well. I can see it in your face."

"Sam feels better, so I feel better."

"It's always been that way."

It was a statement, not a question. The mere observations of an outsider looking in, a being who was drawn to basic human interaction and, therefore, was drawn to the Winchester brothers.

An _all-powerful_ being that had been taught exactly what _emotion _was in the months he'd known the Winchesters. Fierce loyalty, devotion, possessiveness and understanding. Dean felt like his connection with his brother was constantly under a microscope.

A very big and mighty microscope.

Completely serious, he responded, "Since the day he was born."

"You love your brother."

"What do _you_ think?"

"I think you're conflicted, confused." Castiel paused, his hard eyes softening just slightly. "Terrified of losing the one thing that means more to you than anything else."

Dean, not trusting his own voice, stayed silent.

"There is an ever-growing anger deep your soul that completely astonishes me-"

Dean interrupted loudly. "Why would I possibly be angry? It's all a joke, Cas. All of it. There no reason for all this crap—not one that makes sense, anyway."

"Do you honestly believe that?"

"More than I've ever believed in anything."

A very loud silence fell in the darkened kitchen after Dean's lightening quick response, one man and one angel, standing on the opposite sides of a large room.

It never failed to amaze Dean how different they were, him and Castiel.

Castiel had all the power in the world—time travel, strength, an army standing behind him that seemed never-ending. While all Dean had was his car, his shotgun and his brother.

And somehow, someway, Dean always managed to get more accomplished.

What the hell was up with _that_?

"I wanna ask you something, Cas."

The angel nodded once, signaling for Dean to continue.

After a moment he took a deep breath and said, "Before, when Sam was really bad…he somehow made it through."

"Sam is strong."

"Not that strong." Pushing himself from the doorframe Dean folded his arms across his chest. "He was dying in my arms, but then all of a sudden he's fine." His eyes warmed against his will. "You had somethin' to do with that, didn't you?"

"You asked me to help him-"

"And you told me that you couldn't do it."

"You are my charge, Dean. My responsibility." Castiel raised his head and the two locked eyes. "I pulled you from Hell and since then it has fallen to me, your guardian, to protect and look out for you. You and Sam are practically one and the same—when one falls, so does the other. To keep _you_ safe, Sam must also be kept safe." He paused briefly, then said, "To answer your question. Yes. I did have something to do with what happened before."

Dean swallowed hard to keep himself from blurting out gratefully and embarrassingly.

His opinion of the self-righteous angel had always been unsteady; there were moments he found himself so deep in his debt and so appreciative that it was insane…but then, there were also moments that he wanted nothing more than to kick Castiel's ass himself.

That moment fell into the former category. Completely and utterly.

"Thank you." Dean's voice was strained, so he tried again. "Thank you for doin' that."

"Please don't thank me, there's no need."

"_There's no need_? You saved my brother's life-"

"Because that action, in turn, saved _you_. It's what needed to be done."

Dean nodded, accepting that for what it was—even though he'd read between the lines and seen what was underneath. It had been an act of kindness, an act bred entirely out of emotion, even if the angel wouldn't admit it.

"Is Sam gonna make it through this?"

"You've asked me that question once before."

"And I'm askin' you again, since, y'know…we're bein' all _honest _and everything."

"Honesty occurs between us far more often than you might think." Castiel was completely still as he answered. "Yes. Your brother will survive. His fever has broken, the lycanthropy is practically absent now from his blood-"

"You said it would take twenty-four hours."

"_Naturally_, it would have taken twenty-four hours. Since I chose to intervene, that time frame is now irrelevant."

_Oh._

_Well then._

Dean wasn't sure exactly how far he could push his pride, so he didn't say thank you a second time out loud. His mind, however, was practically screaming the words.

And when a gentle expression spread across the angel's face, Dean was sure he'd somehow heard.

******

"_Sam?" _

_Dean called out in the general direction of his and Sam's shared bedroom. _

_He loaded the salt round into the well-used shotgun and snapped the weapon together with a gratifying click, setting it down carefully onto the surface of the old wooden table. _

"_Sammy? Nearly ready?"_

"_Yeah, gimme two minutes!"_

"_What the hell are you doin' in there?"_

_There was a faint scuffling noise as Sam rooted around in the bedroom. Sam's voice was muffled as he shouted back, "Lookin' for my shoe!"_

_Dean couldn't help but snort, imagining the messy disaster that had taken over half of their room. "Yeah, right. Good luck."_

"_What?"_

"_Nothin'." _

"_What!?" Sam yelled again._

"_Nothing!" Dean yelled louder. "Hurry up dude, we gotta meet dad!"_

"_What time?"_

"_Now!"_

_A loud thud. "Ow! Son of a bitch!"_

_Laying down a newly loaded nine millimeter Beretta next to the shotgun, Dean almost snorted again. "You ok in there?"_

_An obviously frustrated fourteen year old Sammy emerged from the hallway; one hand rubbing the back of his head, the other hand holding the wayward sneaker. "Hit my head." He pouted. "Friggin' closet, man."_

"_I told you to leave 'em by the door."_

"_Yeah, whatever."_

"_I did."_

"_Can we just get outta here?"_

_Dean smirked to himself and picked up the two weapons, crossing the room and making for the open duffle bag sitting on his bed. _

"_I dunno how dad expects us to be in Dallas by tonight." Sam motioned to the glowing red digits of the alarm clock. "It's a seven hour drive, he wants us to make in it five?"_

"_We'll make it."_

"_Yeah? How?"_

_Dean glanced over his shoulder, grinning mischievously. "I'm drivin'."_

_Sam simply rolled his eyes._

"_Figure we'll stop in Wichita Falls-"_

"_How far away is that?"_

"_About four hours…for a mere mortal, that is. I'll make it sooner."_

_The younger boy hoisted his own duffle up onto his shoulder, wincing slightly at the weight of it. He shifted it trying to find a position that didn't hurt. _

"_You all packed up?"_

"_Yeah."_

_There was a tone to his little brother's voice that had Dean frowning. If there was one thing Dean knew more than anything else in the world, it was the sound of Sammy's voice; every possible inflection, tone, pitch…the attitude underneath everything else. _

_It was a skill that Dean was proud of…and on occasion, incredibly thankful for._

"_Sammy. Hey." The kid looked over and there was even more evidence there; he was purely miserable, and he was also trying to hide it with every fiber of his being. "You ok?"_

_He shrugged. "Fine. Why?"_

_Dean studied his brother carefully, and then, "You sure?"_

"_Yeah, I'm sure."_

_Dean wasn't buying it. "Sam-"_

"_I'm fine!" _

_The completely fake and phony smile on Sam's face was as tell-tale as anything. All the older boy could do was sigh, folding his arms across his chest. "It's that chick, isn't it?" Sam looked over, the two locking eyes. "The one you were tellin' me about?"_

_After a moment he sighed, looking down at the floor. "Dean…"_

"_What did you say her name was?"_

_A silence fell in the room and Sam kept his eyes focused on the worn carpeting. His physical reaction, coupled with the unhappy look on his face?_

_Dean remembered in detail the day little Sammy had practically come bouncing into the motel room, his backpack swinging wildly from one shoulder and an enormous grin on his face. Dean knew that look backwards and forwards—only a girl could make his kid brother smile like that._

_It didn't take a genius to see that Sam was the shy brother. With a dimpled smile that could turn practically anyone into a useless puddle of goo and the light tint of pink that colored his face at the right moments, Sammy was, without a doubt, freakin' adorable. _

_Well…_

_For a geeky pre-pubescent teenage boy, anyway._

_In their little brotherly relationship, it was always Dean that effortlessly attracted attention from the opposite sex—his charms were irresistible along with his smile and his mischievous smirks…no girl could resist it, whether she was a diner waitress or a high school student._

_He routinely snuck into bars and pool halls often not returning to their motel room until early the following morning, his body satisfied and practically every inch of him radiating smugness._

_Sam, on the other hand, simply blushed and romanced, preferring to meet girls his age through study groups and late night visits to the library. __The younger Winchester brother was a romantic at heart. _

_While Dean was…well…_

_Dean. _

"_Her name's Tracy. We were uh…gonna go see a movie tonight." _

_Sam's voice was quiet, embarrassed, and Dean's chest ached for the kid. _

_He may have been all about one night stands and carnal cravings…but Sammy was about something more._

"_Then dad called?"_

_The kid nodded. "Yeah." _

_Dean sighed again. "I'm sorry, Sammy."_

"_Why? I only met her a couple weeks ago."_

"_Yeah…but still. I know you were into her-"_

"_Dean-" Sam narrowed his eyes only slightly, adjusting his bag again. "Don't. Ok?"_

_Chick flick moments and emotion wasn't really Dean's strong point, but for his brother, he was willing to make the effort._

_Getting Sam to make the effort at that moment, however? Whole new story._

"_Dude, come on-"_

"_I really don't wanna talk about this." The car keys were sitting on the end of Dean's bed and Sam reached for them, clenching his hand around them for a second before handing them out towards his brother. "Can we just go?"_

_Dean nodded reluctantly, his chest still aching. "Yeah." He reached out and took the keys, also clenching them in his hand. _

_There we no more words spoken between them as Sam made his way, silently, to the door. Dean watched as he disappeared through it, trudging across the parking lot to wait—presumably—by the car. _

_There was a reason that Dean stuck with one night stands._

_There was a reason that, at eighteen, he'd never formed any kind of real relationship; no girlfriend that had lasted longer than it took to meet, flirt, kiss and pleasurably explore. _

_And that reason was apprehension._

_What's the point in getting attached if you're just going to have your heart broken after only a few days?_

_He was the second oldest in a family of hunters. Romance wasn't an option; he didn't have time, nor any real desire…not at that particular point in his life, anyway. _

_Dean made his own choices for his own reasons. He chose to distance himself from other people, lock himself away in his own little world…he chose to do what he did, going from place to place, hunting monster after monster. _

_But Sam was different. _

_Sam wasn't hunting because it was his choice or because he enjoyed it. He was hunting because he was expected to do it, because his father and brother did it…and because revenge for their mother demanded it. And it would be a frigid day in Hell before little Sammy _ever_ charmed a girl into wanting to invite him home for the night._

_His little brother was too damn noble._

_In a way Sam's refusal to partake in that kind of lifestyle when it came to women made Dean's job harder. As the older brother, Dean's purpose was to keep Sam safe—physical pain and any form of heartbreak…anything and everything. _

_And to see that dimply-faced teenager, alone, outside, leaning against the side of the car…he wished more than anything that he could take that pain away._

_The words sprung into his throat and he was moving across the room before he was even aware of it. Coming to a stop, he leaned inside the open doorway and sighed; his eyes fell on Sammy and he yelled out, "Sammy?" _

_Sam raised his head, the toe of his sneaker moving against the concrete dejectedly. "You comin' or what?"_

"_How 'bout we just…stay tonight, head out tomorrow morning."_

_The younger brother blinked owlishly and managed a confused, "What?"_

"_I'll call dad. Tell him somethin' came up."_

"_Why would you do that?"_

"'_Cause I'm an awesome big brother." Motioning him back inside, Dean said, "Come on, man, come back in here."_

"_Dean-"_

"_You need a ride to meet up with Tracy?"_

_Looking around in complete confusion, Sam pushed himself from his lean against the side of the car and ambled back across the parking lot. As soon as he was close enough, he said, "I thought you wanted to get outta here?"_

_Dean shrugged, moving aside to allow Sam back into the room. "One more night won't make much of a difference, man."_

"_I already told her I couldn't go-"_

"_Well, then, you better get her on the phone and tell her there's been a change in plans."_

_Sam dropped his duffle back onto his bed and turned, blatant confusion on his young face. "Dean, it's not a big deal-"_

"_You call your girl, I'll call dad."_

"_What're you gonna tell him?"_

"_I got no idea." Dean sighed, reaching a hand into the right pocket of his jeans and pulling out his cell phone. "I'll just pull somethin' outta my ass. He's with Caleb, anyway...it's not like he needs us right away."_

_Dean had just started dialing when Sam quietly said his name. He looked up, watching his little brother struggle for words—eventually Sam sighed and nodded his head, a ghost of a shy smile on his face. "Thanks."_

_And that, right there? Made it all worth it. _

_Dean couldn't help but smile back, nodding towards the bathroom. "Go get cleaned up, bitch…we're leavin' in twenty."_

_He may not have been able to give Sam the life he really deserved, but if there was one thing Dean could do…it was protect the little nerd from _this_ kind of heartbreak._

_He _was_ an awesome big brother, after all._

*****

His arms were resting heavily against the hard surface of the kitchen table as he sat there in the only remaining chair.

The room was dark around him and without Castiel—who'd left only a few minutes before—it was strangely quiet.

The tears had come to his eyes unhindered, and he could count on one hand the number of times in his life he'd cried without giving a damn.

He'd cried when Sam had left him in the hospital following the electrocution, not afraid of death but afraid of leaving his little brother alone…he'd cried when they'd lost their father…he'd cried when he'd lost Sam in Cold Oak…and he'd cried the night he'd gone to Hell; him and Sam standing together when the clock chimed midnight simply waiting for the barking and howling of approaching hellhounds.

The worst moments in his history were marked with his unashamed tears.

But at _that_ moment? His tears, probably for the first time were purely happy.

He had always been able to protect Sam from emotional heartbreak; agreeing to wait one more night before leaving town…volunteering to lie to their father in an effort to keep any kind of saddened look from his little brother's face.

Volunteering to drive a blushing fourteen year old to meet his girl at a movie theatre an hour away.

But it had been two, almost three days since Sam had been attacked by the werewolf…and _that_ time, he hadn't managed to keep the kid safe.

Hearing that Sammy was going to pull through was like balm to his soul.

And if that relief brought on a few sobs and uncontrollable tears?

As he'd told himself a million times. For Sammy? He was more than willing.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note:** Hey everyone! So sorry that it took so long to get this chapter up--my laptop was infected with a virus, then it was in the shop, then I got it back (completely wiped) and I've been trying to get things back together ever since. I somehow magically managed to save all of my stories though, thank goodness. I'm sure that if I had to start everything over again, I would've gone mental. _Anyway_..hope you like this chapter and thanks again to everyone that's reviewed so far! You're all wonderful!

PS--Is anyone excited for the season 5 opener? I know I am! :o)

**Disclaimer:** The ideas and characters belong to Eric Kripke. The love belongs to us!

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The handcuffs were finally gone.

The blankets had been thrown into the small hamper on the main floor, desperately needing a wash to get rid of the smell of sweat from Sam's fever and the blood from his wrists.

The mattress had been removed and the cot had been folded up, leaning against the far wall beside Bobby's desk.

And Sammy had finally (and slowly) made the trip out of the panic room and up the staircase, visibly brightening the moment he set foot on the old tiled floors of the kitchen. Dean held his arm tightly at the elbow, making sure the kid stayed upright.

After nearly three days on the cot Sam's legs were obviously cramped and sore, making walking a slight challenge. The usually stable and solid twenty-six year old was frail and exhausted, each and every step seeming to drain a little more energy from his already wearing reserves.

"We gotta get you somethin' to eat, Sammy." Dean's voice was quiet. "You must be starving."

Sam shook his head. "I'm not. I don't think I can eat."

"It's been three days-"

"Really, Dean-" Sam glanced over, his face soft and reassuring. "I'm ok. Just wanna get into bed and have a good sleep."

"Thought you were tired of bein' tired?"

"Yeah, I was tired of bein' tired on the _cot_. The bed upstairs? Whole other story, dude."

The older man couldn't help but smile lightly, turning them in the direction of the upstairs staircase. "You sure you can handle the stairs?" Sam nodded and a comfortable silence fell between them as both brothers fell into concentration—Sam was trying to stay conscious and at the same time was watching his feet to make sure he took careful steps. Dean was concentrating on the hold he had on Sam's arm, making sure it was strong and supportive.

It took them nearly twenty minutes to safely make it to the upstairs hallway.

Dean had always been in tune with Sam's attitudes and feelings, despite the fact that when he'd first returned from Hell his _little_ _brother_ _antennae_ had been somewhat rusty.

Didn't mean that he couldn't _feel_ it.

The moment the brothers crossed the doorstep of the darkened and familiar bedroom, Sam's relief and happiness was almost tangible. His arm relaxed in Dean's tight grip and the older brother couldn't help but smile; in fact, his heart almost broke open in the face of Sam's obvious contentment.

It was obvious that Bobby had at some point made a trip upstairs because the blankets of the far bed were already turned down and waiting.

"You ok, man?"

Sam nodded and swallowed thickly. "I'm ok, Dean."

"What do you need me to do?"

"I need you to not freak out."

Dean smiled again, tightening his grip on Sam's forearm as the younger man slowly started to lower himself down onto the comfortable mattress. "Easier said than done, dude." The wince that suddenly appeared on Sam's face made Dean's worry instantly skyrocket. "Sammy—"

"I'm ok-" Letting out a labored breath, Sam sent him a small and heartbreakingly reassuring smile. "Just a little sore."

"Don't lie to me, you're sore as hell."

"Yeah, well—"

"_Yeah, well_' nothin'. Don't make like it isn't a big deal, Sam."

Sam seemed to almost deflate into the pillows, not even having the energy to frown when Dean grabbed hold of the blankets and pulled them gently up to his chin, tucking him in. "I know…m'sorry."

"Don't be sorry, just…"

Dean trailed off quietly; he let out a breath and crouched down beside Sam's bed, running a hand through his short hair.

Sam didn't need his older brother to finish his sentence.

_Words_ weren't something they needed.

"Dean?" When Dean looked up and met his eyes, Sam tried his best to nod. "I know."

"You do?"

"Yeah, I do. It's ok."

All Dean did was shake his head, feeling a well of emotion gathering in the invisible gap in his chest. It felt like a burning wave, a nearly uncontrollable relief that was making it hard to breathe.

Moisture welled in his eyes before he'd even realized it and he stood up from his crouch, letting out a small groan of frustration.

It was over.

He _knew_ it was over.

_So why the hell am I so damn anxious?_

It had descended over him like a cloak, a heavy feeling on the back of his shoulders. It weighed him down, made him feel like there was something…_just something_…that he was missing.

He just didn't know _what_.

"Dean?"

Sam's quiet whisper snapped the older man back to reality and he turned, meeting his brother's worried gaze.

Sam frowned, genuinely concerned. "You ok?"

Sam was tired. Damn near exhausted. Every time the kid blinked, it took longer and longer for him to force his eyes open again. Lying there in the bed, he looked so small…just like he had when he was seven years old and was just getting over the tail end of a fever or head cold.

Sam looked as if a light breeze could kill him and Dean couldn't stop the protectiveness that stirred inside him.

His little brother was staring out at him from inside the body of the man he'd grown into; his eyes enormous and betraying his every tumultuous emotion.

With Sammy, it was always his eyes that gave him away.

"Dean?"

"I'm ok, Sammy." He tried to smile, slowly making his way back over to his brother's bedside. "_You're_ the one we gotta be worryin' about."

"You've been worrying about me enough."

"Nah, it's never enough."

Sam's eyes simply got wider and wetter in response to Dean's words, but before the kid could work up the control to say something back, there was a light and timid knock on the door frame.

Dean turned around and his eyes fell on Bobby—who looked a little worse for the wear, just like Dean did, but also looked relieved.

"You boys doin' ok?"

Dean gave a small nod. "We're good."

"Just lettin' you know I'm gonna turn in for a few hours." The older man motioned down the hallway. "You know where my room is."

"Thanks, Bobby."

With a suddenly stern look and a pointed finger, Bobby said, "You come get me if somethin' happens, you hear me?" Looking suddenly bashful, he added, "Especially if that angel friend of yours comes back. He makes me nervous."

Dean couldn't help but snort, giving another quick nod. "Yeah, I hear you."

Leaning in the door slightly, Bobby made eye contact with Sam. "How you feelin', kid?"

Sam gave a slow blink. "Ok."

"You two get some sleep. It's been a hell of a couple days."

Bobby withdrew from the door and Dean called after him. "Night, Bobby." As the heavy footsteps of the older hunter faded down the hallway—followed quickly by a bedroom door closing—Dean released a breath and turned around again to face his brother. "You need anything?"

"No thanks, I'm good."

"You gonna try and sleep?"

There was another slow blink. "Don't think I have much choice."

"Good, you need it."

"And…so do you."

"I got another few hours in me—"

"_Now_ who's lying?"

Dean at least had the good grace to look sheepish and he let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. "Yeah…I'm tired."

"I know you are."

Sam glanced at the other bed for a second, making a silent point; Dean saw it and understood it.

"As soon as you fall asleep, I'll lay down—"

"You promise?"

Sam's lightening quick response reminded Dean, again, of a much younger and far more innocent Sammy. The kid that always believed big brother could fix any problem…the kid who'd looked at Dean with such unabashed hero worship in his small eyes that the mere _memory_ of it made Dean want to grab him and hug him.

The kid who'd believed that a promise was one of the most important things between brothers.

Promises and hugs.

As Castiel had said—_shared comforts during life's thunderstorms._

"Yeah, Sammy—" Dean tried desperately not to sniffle. "I promise."

The two stared at each other a moment longer before Dean bent slightly to switch off the lamp sitting on the bedside table. The room was plunged into sudden darkness and it was only then that he allowed himself to blink, feeling that _one friggin' tear_ snake its way down his cheek.

****************

"So the boy is free of the lycanthropy."

The two seemingly ordinary men sat together on the old wooden bench, the snowy park quiet around them.

But they were anything _but_ ordinary.

The cold Alaskan air didn't affect him in the slightest, but Castiel couldn't help but miss the simple warmth of South Dakota. The dry air and the green grass was, suffice it to say, far more favorable than the snow and ice.

There were certain parts of the world he'd become fond of since the entire debacle with the Winchesters had begun—South Dakota being one…Lawrence, Kansas, being another.

He couldn't ignore the fact that every place on Earth he had those feelings for had something to do with the two _very_ _human_ brothers.

He didn't ignore it…but he also didn't voice it.

Only to himself.

"Quite a strange turn of events, wouldn't you say, Castiel?" The deep voice of his counterpart had an almost accusing edge to it and Castiel turned to look over his shoulder, eyes narrowed in silent warning. Uriel, however, continued. "Attacked by a werewolf. Ill and on the verge of death. How did he overcome it? Surely the older one didn't sell his soul _again_?"

"You would be wise to keep such comments to yourself." Castiel said quietly, tearing his eyes away and looking out over the snow-covered landscape. "It's unbecoming."

"Is it, now? Please don't insult my intelligence by telling me that you remained stagnant?"

"I would never do such a thing."

"You're becoming far too attached, Castiel, to these _humans_. Your emotions make you weak."

"My emotions, frankly, are no concern of yours." Castiel looked over his shoulder again. "We are here, we are following orders…we are doing what is expected of us."

"So cleansing the demon boy of that blood poisoning was _expected _of us?"

"My orders are to keep Dean Winchester physically and emotionally safe."

"I'm aware of that."

"And in so doing, that also means keeping Sam Winchester physically and emotionally safe."

"I was _not _aware of _that._" Uriel lowered his voice to a near hiss. "Don't you see what is happening? By keeping that boy alive—everything we fear, everything we have ever _fought against? _We are enabling it."

"You're far too suspicious."

"Am I? I don't understand what it is about these…_mud monkeys_ that has you so captivated. It's as if you've completely lost sight of our objective here."

"Do not presume to understand my reasons for doing what I'm doing, Uriel. I couldn't possibly make you see—"

"Why not?"

"Because I, unlike you, am a guardian." Castiel sat up only slightly, letting out a slight breath as he met Uriel's furious gaze. "_You_ are a soldier."

Uriel's eyes flashed and he sat forward as well, moving his face only inches away from Castiel's. "Don't you dare look down your nose at me, brother. In case you've forgotten, you _also_ hold the title of soldier."

"My sole purpose in this war is to aid Dean Winchester in whatever way I can. _That_ is our objective, you know this." Uriel sighed and leaned back, obviously frustrated. "And even though I see how much that truth bothers you, Uriel, my point of view will not change."

"You are walking into something you can't _possibly_ understand. And you're naïve if you believe for one single solitary second that that boy will make a positive difference. He will hinder us, just as he hinders his brother."

"Sam's older brother loves him unconditionally. There is no hindrance there."

"Then you're blind on top of being naïve."

"Your opinions on this matter are your own." Castiel swallowed hard and looked at his friend imploringly. "I ask you for your help in this, but unless you can remain impartial…then there is no need for you to linger."

"There _is_ a need for me to linger, Castiel. Don't forget—I have orders, just as you do. The only difference between us is that I'm aware of what is going on here, I can read between the lines. You let your emotions for these two humans cloud your judgment and if you're not careful, you'll find yourself being removed from the situation."

Castiel's eyes narrowed dangerously again, his voice deepening. "Are you threatening me?"

"No, I'm not. I'm merely stating fact." Uriel uselessly straightened his tie and stood from the bench, casting another glance down at his friend. "Do yourself a favor, Castiel, and try to rearrange your priorities into an order that makes sense. We are here for a reason. Don't forget that."

There was a slight burst of wind, a quiet flutter of wings, and then Castiel was alone.

And for the first time in centuries, he felt cold.

***********

Dean jerked awake as if he'd been slapped, his heart pounding and racing angrily in his chest.

The room was completely dark around him as he tried to settle himself, pulling in deep breaths and running a hand down his face, wiping sweat from his eyes.

His internal clock told him it was just after four in the morning and when he turned his head, his eyes falling on the glowing digits of the alarm, he was proven correct.

_4:12am._

He had no idea what had awoken him so suddenly.

And then, like another slap in the face…it all came rushing back.

Fighting with Sam.

Finding their motel room empty.

'_Gone down to the docks.'_

The gouge in Sam's shoulder.

A horrifying car ride.

The panic room.

Growling and snarling.

A blood curdling scream.

Dean shot into a sitting position and directed his eyes immediately over to the next bed. Sam was still asleep and peaceful, curled into his blankets as if in an unconscious effort to protect himself.

And all Dean could do was stare at him, trying his damndest to see the gentle rise and fall of the kid's chest in the intense darkness.

Sam was breathing, Sam was ok, Sam was _alive._

_Dammit, Dean, get a hold of yourself!_

It was then that the older Winchester realized he'd once again fallen asleep in his clothes…_on top_ of the blankets.

No wonder he was cold.

As quietly as possible he threw his legs over the edge of the bed and raised a hand to the back of neck, trying to massage away the incredible tension. He'd been sitting in a wooden dining chair for days and now he was starting to feel it.

It made him miss the comfortable seat of the Impala—the familiar vinyl that almost seemed to wrap itself protectively around him and _purr_.

The feeling of the car and the feeling of having Sam beside him? Those were the only two feelings in the world that _told_ him that life was ok, that things were normal.

It was heartbreaking to think that it would be a longtime coming before life felt normal again.

'_Almost losing Sammy'_ was becoming far too normal an occurrence.

Life couldn't be normal if he was always _'almost losing Sammy'._

He pushed himself to his feet and shuffled across the small space between the two beds.

Sam was on his side facing towards him and Dean couldn't resist; he reached down slowly, his hand making gentle contact with Sam's hot forehead.

He hadn't done that since Sam was a kid; simply _touching_ his brother for the sake of touching him…simply _touching _him because Dean himself so badly needed the contact.

He wasn't a man that needed physical contact to be soothed. He'd never been into _touchy feely-ness. _Sam on the other hand _was_ into physical contact—he was astonishingly affectionate.

Touch didn't hold the same meaning for Dean as it did for Sam.

But then, Dean had been raised by a much colder parent.

But right then, at that moment, physical contact was the _only thing_ that could soothe the distraught older brother. Not sleep, not sex, not beer…just the feeling of Sammy's skin underneath his fingertips.

He hadn't sensed it or felt the change.

Maybe that's why when Sam's eyes slowly opened to slits, staring up at him in confusion, he nearly yelped, pulling his hand back.

"D'n'?"

He tried to smile through the sudden moisture in his eyes. "Hey Sammy."

"You…ok?"

"Fine, dude. Go back to sleep."

Sam apparently didn't need to be told twice. His eyes delicately slipped closed and he let out a low breath, his body seeming to shrink again.

As soon as he was sure the kid was out again, Dean returned his hand to his smooth forehead.

It was sad that the only time Dean could express such affection was when Sammy was asleep.

He'd created his big brother persona with care, being sure to inject all the toughness and strength into it that he'd come to rely on throughout his and Sam's lifetime. The _toughness_ he'd need to stare down bullies in childhood and drunken bikers in adulthood…the _strength_ he'd need to drive from town to town, year after year, with Sammy trudging along loyally behind him.

But it was in the aftermath of horrors like the werewolf poisoning where that persona was rocked to its very foundation.

Because in the grand scheme of things, it didn't matter how tall Sammy got or how much muscle he had. It didn't matter if Sam was a better researcher…or hell, even a better _hunter_. None of that mattered because he was still Dean's little brother.

************

_Dean didn't know how it had happened._

_After all, they were only getting out of the car. It wasn't as if it was a difficult task. Actually it was a pretty basic routine in everyday life._

"_Sammy!"_

_Dean couldn't help but call out as he watched it happen in slow motion._

_Sammy had pushed open the car door and made to slide out of the back seat; only he accidentally caught his foot on the frame and went falling, face first, into the concrete sidewalk._

_He then promptly started to cry._

_Dean scrambled from the seat, barely hearing the concerned voice of his dad as he asked what had happened. He crouched down beside his fallen and clearly distressed baby brother and pulled the kid against his chest, not even hesitating in wrapping his arms around the small and quaking body._

"_Geez, Sammy…", he whispered into the little boy's hair. "You gotta be more careful."_

_The familiar creak of hinges reached Dean's ears and he turned and watched as John Winchester quickly unfolded his tall frame from behind the wheel. _

_Within seconds their dad was crouched down as well, running a soothing hand over little Sammy's hair. "You ok, buddy?"_

_The little boy snuffling in Dean's arms gave a quick shake of his head and buried his face further into his older brother's shirt—Dean tightened his hold in response._

_Even at the ages of five and nine, their ability to 'speak without speaking' was nearly perfected. _

_Sam silently snuggled closer, and translated that meant, "Don't let go."_

_Dean tightened his embrace. _

"_Couldn't if I wanted to."_

**********

Dean longed for the simplicity of childhood.

When you're a kid, hugs are allowed.

When you're a kid, there's no manly pride to worry about…no images to maintain or preserve. All there is, is love and affection. Because when you're a kid? That's all that matters.

It matters because once adulthood strikes, no one has time for it.

Dean gently brushed aside the sweat-dampened hair from Sam's forehead.

No one has time for it until they come close to losing what matters most.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note**: Ooookey dokey. Here's chapter 9! I've had a couple people ask me how much more of this story there's going to be. My muse wants to keep on writing but I'm already working on another (truly enormous) project, so this story won't be going on for much longer. I'm thinking one more chapter after this one. But we'll see what happens :o) Thanks again to all of those people that have stuck with it since I first started--I hope you like the new entry!

**Disclaimer:** The characters and ideas belong to Kripke. The love belongs to us!

PS--Jackie, my dear, just want you to know that this chapter is for you! I'm so glad that I've gotten to know you and thanks **so much** for all of the amazing words and confidence inspiring messages. Hope you and the hubby are having an amazing weekend! xoxo

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He heard the front door bang open and the familiar heavy footsteps approaching the kitchen but he was far too aggravated to really care.

And when Bobby's voice rang out from the front room asking amusedly how the patient was doing, Dean answered truthfully and honestly.

"He's bein' a pain in my ass." He almost groaned in frustration. "Jesus, Sam, sit down!"

"I'm only trying to help—"

"Yeah, well, right now you're _not_ helping. You're pissin' me off."

With his arms in soapy water up to his elbows and his fingers already turning pruney, Dean was rapidly learning that multi-tasking wasn't _nearly_ as easy as he'd been thinking it was.

Ok, yeah, sure, when it came to _hunting_ it was easy—handling more than one weapon at once, nurturing several ideas at once, asking questions, taking statements.

Women and hunting. Sometimes both at the same time. _That_ was the kind of multi-tasking he was used to.

The domesticated house-hold crap?

Yeah, not so much.

It had been nearly four days since Sam had burned through the werewolf poisoning and Dean could tell the kid was getting restless. At first he'd been more than willing to let his older brother hover—plumping his pillows uselessly, getting him water, helping him to the bathroom (even though he'd drawn the line at Dean actually _accompanying_ him directly to the toilet). But now that some time had passed, and now that he was starting to feel somewhat close to his old self, that compliance was long gone.

Sam wanted to _do things_, help out around the house and make himself useful.

Normally when the Winchesters descended down on the Singer Salvage Yard, they fell into a kind of routine. Sam helped out around the house, making sure the bed sheets were changed regularly, helping cook the meals, as well as taking it upon himself to reorganize Bobby's insane library and often messy book collection.

Dean put his skills to good use _outside_, helping Bobby repair some of the old cars out in the lot and cleaning up the several dusty and under kept work benches and tool boxes.

They tried to help out as much as they could, agreeing silently that even though Bobby obviously loved having them there and clearly enjoyed the company, it put a person out having two fully grown men staying in their spare room. Sammy was big on bottled water…Dean was big on beer…_both_ brothers could certainly eat their fair share. But Bobby had refused to let them help out with buying groceries since the first time they'd crashed there.

_Stubborn old man._

But despite his twitchy and fidgety younger brother lingering closely behind him wherever he went (out of pure boredom, no doubt), Dean was happy.

Not too much had happened since Sam's initial recovery. Dean and Bobby had been watching him closely since he'd left the panic room, keeping an eye out for any strange behavior; violent temper, mood swings, abnormal strength or changes in his voice, like unexpected growls or a deeper resonance.

The only thing they'd noticed, however, was a change in appetite.

Halfway through his second day of mending, Sam had all of a sudden appeared downstairs—with Bobby's help, of course—and announced to his brother that he was craving steak.

Yeah, ok, that wasn't too weird. After all it'd been a long time since the kid had had a decent meal, he was allowed a craving for some serious solid food.

All Dean cared about was whether or not eating something so heavy would make the poor kid sick.

It started _getting_ weird however when Sam asked for it rare. When Dean turned to look at him, an eyebrow raised in question, Sam had merely smiled and said, _"I like my steaks undercooked."_

On their limited budget, it wasn't very often that the Winchesters got to eat something wholesome like a good steak. But the few times they _had_ ordered it? Dean was pretty damn sure Sam had preferred it well done.

But he'd tried to keep quiet about it. Later that evening, after Sam had fallen asleep again, the older brother and Bobby had retreated to the library and had talked possibilities well into the early morning.

Maybe there was still traces of lycan poisoning? _"No, that's not possible. Cas said he got rid of it."_

Maybe sufferers of werewolf bites took on wolfish habits? _"There's no way to know. No one apart from Sam has ever survived a werewolf bite as a human."_

Maybe that was true, but did that mean that Sam couldn't be the first? _"I really hate this crap, man."_

After closer inspection of the wound in Sam's shoulder, it was obvious that Castiel's sudden decision to cleanse Sam of the poison in his blood was _just_ that—a cleansing of his blood. The wound in his shoulder was still as angry and red as ever and Dean made sure it was cleaned and bandaged every hour in a fight against infection.

Bobby had said that most likely the wound would never fully heal. It would scar just like any normal cut or gash would, but Sam would carry it for the rest of his life.

Just one more scar to add to his constantly growing collection.

Supernatural wounds had a habit of hanging around long after the fact.

But Dean couldn't find it within himself to complain. If after everything that had happened all Sammy came away with was a preference for near raw meat? Then they were lucky.

If the kid suddenly _really_ turned on his ear and started asking for steamed spinach?

Well, _then_ Dean would start flipping out.

He set the last clean dish in the strainer and then reached back into the soapy water, pulling the plug. As the bubbles swirled, Dean grabbed the small towel that he'd earlier flung over his shoulder and proceeded to dry his hands, watching as Bobby finally made his way into the kitchen.

"You boys ok?"

Sam, who was sitting at the table, nodded slowly. "We're ok."

He turned his eyes to Dean. "Did you wash those dishes properly this time?"

"Of course I did—"

"Ok, good. The _last_ time I let you do 'em, I found crud on one of 'em—"

Dean actually looked offended. "You did not."

"You callin' me a liar?"

"I'm not callin' you anything, maybe you just don't appreciate clean plates—"

"If the plate is _clean_, you're _not_ supposed to be able to pick off crustiness with a fingernail!"

A snort sounded quietly and Dean shot a glare in the direction of the kitchen table.

Under his big brother's angry gaze, all Sam could do was smile.

***

The youngest Winchester was never allowed out of bed for very long.

Normally he made the trip downstairs at mealtimes, not wanting to be stuck upstairs in the bedroom on his own. But as soon as his plate was cleared he was directed back up the stairs and into bed, blankets pulled up to his neck and a bottle of cold water set within reach on the nightstand.

There'd been a few times he'd thought of complaining, fighting against his big brother's mother-bear-protectiveness; but Sam both knew and understood the reasons behind it. Dean had always been the bodyguard—the shield—and he always tried to keep his game face on, no matter how desperate or horrible their situation was. It was ingrained in his big brother psyche to appear calm and unaffected, and as his little brother, only Sam could see the true emotions and feelings underneath the mask.

And so, Sam let Dean hover.

And even played along when Dean acted as though he wasn't.

But of course, eventually, the monotony of it got to be too much.

He wanted to be outside breathing fresh air again. He wanted to make a trip down to the Impala and sit in the passenger seat, because _that's _where he felt the most comfortable. And dammit, he wanted to be able to spend time in Bobby's library—it felt like forever since the last time he'd cracked open a book.

As Dean would say, he wanted to _get his geek on._

And he _did_ want to. Almost to the point of distraction.

Since he'd started feeling well enough to stay conscious, he'd gone over the past few days in his mind. He knew that he'd been stupid, appallingly stupid, going to those docks on his own. He very nearly had signed his own death sentence, and on top of that he'd almost signed Dean's _again_—the idea that he could've wolfed out at any second and hurt his brother or hurt Bobby…the idea that if Dean had been forced to choose between a silver bullet or his brother, he might've made the wrong choice.

There were too many unknowns, too many possibilities.

Sam had become accustomed to studying a situation and recognizing all the risks, all the variables that could turn things sideways.

But just like Dean, he was blind when it came to _himself_.

The sound of boots on the hardwood flooring of the hallway reached Sam's ears and he instantly felt relieved—he knew those particular footsteps and when Dean made his way into the room, Sam had to try hard to hold in a smile.

The older man had smears of grease across his left cheek and the light redness of the skin around the smudge indicated he'd been trying to rub it off for some time.

"You figure out what was makin' that rattle?"

Dean sighed, plonking down onto his own bed. "Not yet, still lookin'."

"'65 Corvette, right?" Dean nodded absently. Sam already knew what the answer would be, but he asked the question anyway. "You need any help?"

His brother didn't disappoint.

"I don't freakin' think so. You're stayin' right there." Reaching down, Dean pulled off one of his boots and then let it fall back to the floor with a resounding _thud_. "And besides, you under the hood?"

"I'm not _that_ bad."

"You're not that _good_, either."

"Oh, well, thanks."

Pulling off his other boot and letting it drop with another _thud_, Dean let out a breath and ran a hand through his sweat dampened hair. "Seriously, dude, just take it easy." He stood from the bed. "Get better, that's all you gotta worry about."

"Easy for you to say, you're not stuck in bed all damn day."

"Trust me, Sammy. If I'd gone through what _you_ did? I _would_ be."

Sam couldn't help but make a face, watching his older brother move about the room from inside his cocoon of blankets. "No you wouldn't! You'd fight every damn step of the way!"

"And you'd know that how?"

"'Cause I know _you_."

"Yeah, whatever." Grabbing hold of the bottom of his t-shirt, Dean pulled it off and tossed it into the old hamper a few feet away from him. Even the skin of his chest and stomach was coated with grease and motor oil.

_Geez, what's he do, roll around in it?_

"I don't understand why the hell you're so antsy, Sammy." Opening the top drawer of the beaten up dresser, Dean pulled out a fluffy grey towel and draped it across the back of his neck. "You've been through hell. Take the time and get back to a hundred."

"I know, I know."

"Do you?"

"Yeah, I do." He sighed, settling into his pillow. "I can't help it, Dean, I'm bored."

"Hey, boring is good. Boring is _awesome_. I've had enough freakin' excitement to last me a lifetime."

Sam watched as his brother turned towards the bathroom, but somehow worked up the energy to call out to him. Dean poked his head back out and after a second Sam took a deep breath and said, "I'm sorry, man."

Dean blinked stupidly for a moment before exiting the bathroom and slowly taking a few steps towards Sam's bed. "Sorry for what?"

"For what happened. Us, fighting about Ruby…the werewolf…the bite. All of it."

Dean let out a breath, "Sammy—"

"No, I mean it. I've been doin' some thinking since everything and I just wanted you to know…you know?"

Sam could instantly tell that his brother was uncomfortable.

Whether he was uncomfortable because of the topic or because it was _bound_ to lead into a chick-flick moment, he didn't know.

Dean eventually nodded his head, reluctantly meeting Sam's gaze. "Let me shower and then we'll talk, ok?"

Sam swallowed and nodded in return. "Yeah. Ok."

The two stared at each other for a moment before Dean finally tore his eyes away, once again heading back into the bathroom. When the door closed and latched, Sam felt his own eyes slip closed.

He was _so sick_ of being tired.

***

Once again, Dean found himself standing in a steamy bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. His strong shoulders were relaxed and loose and the thought of falling into bed and sleeping for a week sounded almost too good to pass up.

The changes he'd started feeling and seeing in himself since Sam had taken his first steps towards recovery were astonishing—he could _feel_ strength returning to his arms and legs, there was a physical power pulsing through his veins again. He was starting to rediscover things like humor, sarcasm and buoyancy; things he'd wanted absolutely _nothing_ to do with when Sam was hurting.

Words suddenly came rushing back to him all at once…

_You and Sam are practically one and the same._

_When one falls, so does the other._

Castiel had spewed some truly nauseating platitudes and clichés over that past year; if anyone knew that, Dean did, having been victim to them several times.

But then the angel went ahead and said something like _that_…

Well…

Dean couldn't argue with it, didn't even want to.

As he'd said to Sam before Hell, the brother's were each others weak spot—only for Sam would Dean willingly go to Hell…and only for Dean would Sam willingly spend a year on the brink of self-destruction.

Snapping out of his stupor, Dean quickly dried off and got himself dressed.

The impending talk with his little brother was daunting, but after nearly four days of avoiding it he couldn't anymore. There was a lot for them to work out—all the ridiculousness with Ruby and the supposed _hunt_ for Lilith, which may or may not have been legit…the lies, the secrets and the sneaking out late at night…Dean's suspiciousness and Sam's blind faith and trust.

He didn't need to hear Sam's point of view again to know that they'd reached an impasse. Fact was, both of them were set in their ways when it came to Ruby and nothing apart from a seismic shift would change it—there would need to be a compromise, an enormous compromise, on someone's part for the issues to be completely worked out.

And Dean, for one, wasn't willing to be the one who gave in.

He'd always had perfect instincts and he considered himself a pretty good judge of character. He couldn't deny that Ruby had saved their asses on several different occasions, so she'd more than proven herself in _that_ respect. But when it came to Sam specifically—calling at all hours of the night, giving them tips that almost _always_ turned into hunts from hell…not to mention that it was only _after_ Sam had met her that he'd started openly lying and keeping secrets.

When it came to Sam, Dean didn't trust the demon at all.

She was using him, messing with his head and making him believe that he was out there doing the right thing when _really_ he was polluting himself and working his way to the top of the angel hit list with blinding speed.

And while Dean knew that his little brother's actions were solely for _him_, revenge for that horrendous final year and the resulting vicious trip downstairs, he wanted more than anything for Sam to walk away from it all.

Dean was _alive_, as close to his old self as he was ever going to get…and dammit he wanted his brother back.

He grasped the knob and pulled the door open, trying to internally prepare himself for the feelings and emotions that would soon be flying all over the room.

But there was no need for that preparation…at least, not at _that_ moment, anyway.

As Dean's eyes travelled across the room, they fell onto the still and peaceful figure piled underneath the blankets on Sam's bed.

The even breathing and the occasional soft snore sent a wave of relief through the older brother.

Sam had fallen asleep.

The talk that he knew they _had_ to have was, thankfully, delayed a little while longer.

As quietly as he could, Dean moved across the room and grabbed hold of his hiking boots.

When he and Bobby had entered the house after spending nearly four hours double-teaming the old 'Vette, the older man had plonked himself down into one of the kitchen chairs and Dean had a sneaking suspicion he'd still be sitting there.

Upon entering the kitchen, he was proven correct.

The only thing he _hadn't _expected but should have? The cold bottles of beer that Bobby had ready and waiting on the table.

He motioned to them. "Want a beer?"

"You even need to ask?" Grabbing one of the sweating bottles, Dean banged off the cap using the edge of the table and settled himself in a lean against the counter.

"How's Sam doin'?"

"He's sleepin' again."

"Poor kid, so dead tired all the time." Bobby swallowed a mouthful of beer and then let out a sigh. "I keep forgettin' it's only been a couple days."

Dean shook his head. "Damn near impossible to forget."

"How 'bout you? How are you doin'?"

Raising his head and locking gazes with the older man, Dean realized that he was growing more and more used to the concern that seemed to always reside in Bobby's expression.

It made him feel reassured when that concern was directed at Sam.

It made him feel weak when it was directed at him.

Taking a pull off his own bottle, Dean looked down to the tiled floor. "I'm ok."

"Very convincing."

"Don't worry about me, Bobby, I'm fine."

"You get any sleep last night?"

The younger man shrugged one shoulder indifferently. "Grabbed a couple hours, yeah. Sam was up a couple times so I was with him."

"Why was he up? Was he not feelin' good?"

Dean adjusted the wet bottle in his hand before turning his eyes towards the closest window—the sunlight streaming in through the glass made him squint. "Nightmares."

Bobby seemed to deflate in his chair, raising a hand and running it down his face. "Nightmares, huh?"

"Yeah, he's been gettin' 'em every night since."

"You think maybe he should talk to someone?"

Dean couldn't help but snort. "Who the hell would he talk to, Bobby? I can't take him to a hospital, they'd lock him up—"

"Well then, maybe _you_ should try talkin' to him."

"I'll try to…as soon as the kid can stay awake long enough to form a sentence."

A very small smile broke out onto Bobby's tired face and he leaned right back in his chair, his body relaxing. "It's been one hell of a week."

"A week? Try one hell of a _year_."

"Yeah, that too."

"I'm tellin' you man—" Dean raised his bottle in a truly pitiful 'cheers'. "We gotta take a vacation."

"Hey, I'm with you."

Both men noticed it at the same time.

There were three presences in the house that they knew and recognized—their own, as well as Sam's upstairs.

But there was now someone else, some_thing_ else…a fourth presence in the house that was making the hair on the back of Dean's neck stand on end.

Bobby looked over at him, his face instantly serious. "You feel that?"

Dean merely nodded, setting his nearly empty down on the counter and pushing himself from his lean. His footsteps were nearly silent as he crossed the kitchen, poking his head out into the hallway and taking a look around.

He looked to the right first—the front hallway of the house which led down to the front door, then to the porch and salvage yard outside. There was nothing suspicious or out of the ordinary.

He then looked to the right.

And nearly had a heart attack.

Right there, standing hardly a foot away, was Castiel.

"Jesus Christ, Cas."

The angel _almost _smiled. "Apropos.

Dean couldn't hold in a frown, it was next to impossible. He glanced over his shoulder at Bobby who was in the process of standing from his chair. "It's alright, Bobby."

"Who is it?"

Dean moved back into the kitchen and Castiel stepped forward, standing just inside the door. The angel turned his deep eyes onto the older hunter and gave a nearly imperceptible nod of his head. "Hello, Robert."

The look on Bobby's face was damn near priceless and if Dean hadn't been so aggravated he probably would've laughed. Bobby always seemed to look politely bemused whenever Castiel was around, almost like Sam had first looked when he'd met the angel for the first time; nervous, awed and stuttering like a complete fool.

Dean for the most part was passed that stage.

Ah hell, he'd never even entered that stage in the first place.

"I apologize if I startled you."

Dean was still frowning. "You didn't startle us. But you should really think about learnin' the finer points of basic manners, Cas." He tilted his head to the side. "Magicianing your way _right_ into someone's house without being invited first? That's the second time you've done that now."

The angel's face remained as stoic as ever but he seemed to take Dean's covertly sarcastic words to heart. Moving his eyes to Bobby one again, he said, "I'm sorry for being rude, Robert."

Bobby didn't say anything. All he did was pop his mouth open as if in complete surprise at being addressed in such a way by an _angel._

After a second, Castiel moved his eyes to once again settle on Dean. "I must speak with you in private."

"What about?"

"Something of import."

"_Import_, huh?" Dean glanced over at Bobby and solidified his stance. "Whatever you wanna say to me, you can say to Bobby."

"I'd really rather not—"

"Dean—" Bobby stood from his chair, setting down his beer bottle on the surface of the table. "It's ok, I'll go check on Sam."

The reminder that an injured Sammy was sleeping upstairs sent a pang through Dean's chest. He swallowed hard and sent a quick nod. "If he's awake, tell him I'll be up in a few."

Bobby made no reply. He simply started towards the door, placing a gentle pat on Dean's shoulder as he passed. As soon as his footfalls disappeared up the staircase, Dean sighed. "Ok. What?"

"We once spoke of your brother being on a dangerous path—"

"I remember. What about it?"

"Is he still using his psychic abilities?"

Dean folded his arms across his chest. "Yeah, along with feelin' like crap and growling, I think he exorcized a couple demons when I wasn't lookin'."

Castiel's face shifted slightly. "You're hostile. Has something else happened?"

"Nothing's happened. Sam's feelin' better."

"Than what is it?"

"Gotta be honest, I keep waiting for Uriel to show up—spoutin' off about what a threat Sam is, y'know, the usual crap."

"I've spoken with Uriel."

Dean quirked an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"

"He accused me of being the one responsible for Sam's recovery."

"Well, you were, weren't you?"

They locked eyes and Dean saw it almost as clear as day; the tinge of worry, the slight concern. Angels, as a populace, weren't allowed to express feelings or experience emotions. If word got back to brass that Castiel had saved a mere human—a human infected by demon blood no less—some serious shit was bound to hit the fan.

That had been one thing Dean had never been able to understand, among many—angels not being allowed to express emotion. They were _angels_ for Christ sake; messengers of God, heavenly beings of goodness and light. If _they_ weren't supposed to experience feeling or sentiment than who the hell was? If they didn't have feelings of love or devotion then how in God's name was the rest of the world supposed to have them?

Dean's voice had softened only slightly. "You're worried, aren't you? About what'll happen if your boss finds out?"

"I'm one of the highest ranked in my garrison. I'm not concerned."

"So angels can't show emotion, but they can lie right out their asses. Is that how it is?"

Castiel's eyes flashed. "I'm not lying to you, Dean."

The younger man snorted and shook his head, as if in disappointment. "You know somethin', Cas…you'd think with how good your poker face is, you'd lie like a freakin' champ? You suck at it." The angel tore his eyes away as if in silent frustration. "Uriel said somethin' that's got you worried, just admit it—"

"Keep an eye on your brother, Dean." Locking their gazes again, Castiel's voice was quiet. "Do whatever you must to keep him from using his abilities."

Dean felt a flare of protectiveness. "What's going on?"

"Nothing yet that's of any significance. Just…do whatever it is you have to in order to keep him away from that demon."

"Ruby?"

"She is bad for your brother. Association with her can only do him harm."

"I've been tryin' to tell him that for the last year."

"Then tell him _again_." Castiel's face was imploring. "It would do the both of you tremendous good to put as much distance between you and Ruby as you can."

The warning was subtle but it hit Dean with the force of a wrecking ball.

_Keep Sam away from Ruby or the angels will. _

Dean was having a déjà-vu.

_Your brother is headed down a dangerous road, Dean, and we're not sure where it leads. So stop it. Or we will._

All Dean could do was glare ferociously at the still figure of the angel standing across the kitchen.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note:** Hey everyone! Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry about the crazy long delay. For the past month I've had writer's block for this story so badly that if I got a sentence a day? It was a GREAT day lol I'm not too sure about this chapter, but at this point I don't want to leave it hanging anymore. I just wanted to thank every single one of you that has stuck with this story since it started--each and every review or alert I got was wonderful and I can't tell you how much I appreciate it! You're all amazing! I hope this chapter is ok and that you all enjoy it :o)

**Disclaimer:** Even after a solid month since my last posting, nothing's changed, still don't own them.

PS--Is everyone enjoying the fifth season so far?

__________________________________________________________________________

Dean couldn't help but smile.

Sam stood by the kitchen sink holding a truly enormous coffee mug in his hand that Dean just _knew_ was filled to the brim with orange juice.

Dean knew that because just earlier that morning his younger brother had engaged in an absolutely hilarious argument with Bobby, practically demanding permission to drive to the nearest store and buy a couple cartons of vitamin C to replace the ones he'd gone through.

Permission had been denied for two reasons; one, because Sam was still under the umbrella of a protective older sibling and wasn't _allowed_ to drive…and two, because Bobby was just too damn stubborn.

Sam, in retaliation, had hidden ten dollars under the microwave and planned to call Bobby from the car to tell him about it.

_Life is never dull._

A few drips of orange juice snaked their way down Sam's chin and he instantly blushed, setting the mug down on the counter and frantically grabbing for paper towel.

Dean's smile widened.

His most prized possession, his little brother.

Orange juice dribbles and all.

"Got a hole in your lip, Sammy?"

A loud gulp. "Shut up."

Dean snorted, rolling up a pair of jeans and half-hazardly stuffing them into his duffle.

They'd moved their bags down into the kitchen that morning after having come to the silent agreement that it was time they hit the road again. Sam was doing well enough to sit in the car for a longer period of time and both brothers were getting antsy staying in the house. They weren't designed to stay in one place longer than a couple days—Dean especially—and after nearly two weeks, the monotony was wearing them down.

When Bobby had argued with them saying that they should stay _at least_ another few days, Dean's response had been short and to the point—_"When you start sleepin' 'cause you got nothin' else to do? It's time to get the hell out."_

The words had been said good-naturedly and warmly, Bobby simply shaking his head in response.

"So where are we headed?"

"I dunno. Figure we'll head to the nearest interstate, drive for a couple hours."

"Do you want me to start looking for a job somewhere?"

"No!" It came out a lot louder than he intended and he was instantly embarrassed—Sam simply looked over, eyebrows almost disappearing his hairline. Dean cleared his throat, trying to appear casual. "No, let's uh…just take it easy, y'know?

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, well…you're still kinda wobbly—"He ignored Sam's sudden scowl. "—and we got nowhere to be."

"So…no plan?"

"Do we _ever_ have a plan?"

_Touché _was written all over Sam's face as he zipped his bag closed in one swift move. "Yeah, guess you're right."

"Let's just worry about makin' sure you're ok. Then we'll talk about getting back to work."

"You're a fusspot, Dean, you know that?"

Under normal circumstances he'd make a joke—a sarcastic rejoinder to minimize how blatantly true Sam's words were. But as he stood there and took in the teasing smile on his brother's face, Dean decided that after everything the truth was the way to go.

"Yeah, I am. Deal with it, dude."

His worry for his brother was the only thing Dean didn't mind being transparent about.

And Sam's smile only got bigger.

***

The heavy trunk of the Impala slammed down and Dean sighed, wiping dust from his hands. His baby was covered in a grimy layer of dirt and he very nearly made a face at the state she was in. Instead, he settled for patting the trunk in a silent but heartfelt apology.

The creak of the hinges drew his attention and he watched Sam toss his duffle bag half-hazardly into the back seat. He winched slightly at the movement of his shoulder. "You ok?"

Sam nodded and rolled his shoulder gently. "Little sore."

"You take those pills I gave you earlier?"

"Yes Florence, I took them."

Dean made an exaggerated _ha ha_ face and sighed, squinting in the harsh afternoon sunshine.

The salvage yard was relatively quiet, the only sounds being the loud and cheerful barking of a dog way off in the distance and the clank of metal on metal.

He was the first person to readily admit that silence made him nervous. It wasn't part of his everyday life, what, with the growl of his car…the loud percussion beats and guitar solos…Sam's constant nattering when he was awake and his soft snoring when he was asleep.

The familiar sounds around Bobby's house helped him relax and he leaned casually against the side of the Impala, folding his arms across his chest.

He'd shed his leather jacket the moment he and Sam had stepped outside—it was too friggin' hot—and the black t-shirt he was wearing was already feeling like a second skin.

"Hey, you alright?"

Dean nodded absently, glancing over. Concern was written all over Sammy's face; the kind of concern that Dean both chafed at and loved...the concern he hated because it instantly made him feel better. "Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

"I dunno, you just seem out of it, that's all." He came closer, shoving his hands sheepishly into the pockets of his jacket. "Long couple days."

The breath of laughter that escaped the older man had no humor in it whatsoever—just weariness and a long-lasting heartache. "Yeah, Sammy," he started, his voice quiet. "Long couple days."

He didn't have to look over to see the expression on the kid's face in his minds-eye; eyes wide and impossibly sad.

The eyes that should've been labeled a weapon of mass destruction when Sam turned four.

"You uh…want me to drive for a bit?"

Dean blinked. "Say again?"

Sam visibly swallowed. "Well, I mean—you're really tired, Dean."

"And you're not?"

"Well—"

"You're not drivin', Sam., so park your ass in the passenger seat."

Sam was about to open his mouth to continue the pointless bickering when Bobby emerged from the house, shaking his head as he started towards the car. "You two startin' already?"

"I'm not startin' anything—" Dean motioned to Sam with a quick nod of his head. "_Francis_ over here wants to drive."

"Dude—" Sam scowled. "Don't call me that."

Bobby rolled his eyes and thrust an incredibly heavy duffle bag into Dean's hands, effectively putting an end to the conversation. "Put a couple things in there that I thought you boys might need—couple things for your med kid, new pain killers, gauze for that shoulder."

Dean nodded quickly, grateful. "Thanks."

"Yeah, Bobby, thanks for everything."

The older man waved a hand dismissively. "Don't go thankin' me. You two idjits just take care of yourselves, please? For Christ sake?"

Both brothers nodded, echoing the same words, "Yes, sir."

Bobby studied them for a moment and then sighed, scratching underneath the peak of his baseball cap. "Yeah…_yes sir_ means no."

The hunters exchanged a few more words and manly pats on the back. Even though he held it in, it was always difficult for Dean leaving Bobby's; despite the fact that he was bored and antsy it was the one place (besides his car) that he felt at home, felt the most comfortable.

It was as close to an apple-pie life as he was ever going to allow himself to get.

The rumble of the Impala was added to the familiar noise of the yard and once Sam was situated in the passenger seat Dean sent a wave out the window and hit the gas, leaving a cloud of dust in the car's wake.

Bobby remained on the front steps with a hand held up in a wave and the brothers watched him in their respective mirrors until they hit the main road.

The wave of relief that overtook Dean at that moment was nearly enough to make his hands shake—they were both alive, Sammy most importantly, and they were out on the road again. No destination in mind but that had never stopped them before.

He just wanted to drive; his girl eating up the blacktop, the sun shining through their open windows and his brother riding shotgun. He wanted normal.

"You think Bobby'll be mad about the money for the orange juice?"

Dean felt a smile break out and he couldn't help but breathe a laugh. "I think you'll hear about it."

"Yeah, I think so, too."

There was an answering smile in Sam's voice.

Dean spoke somewhat embarrassedly, "So you sure you're ok over there? I tried to grab the best pillow."

"I'm ok, Dean." He rolled his head on the headrest—Dean tracked the movement in his peripheral. "Glad to be back in the car?"

"Bet your ass I am. Came close to forgettin' what my baby looked like."

Sam chuckled quietly, snuggling down under the blanket that Dean had forced him to take from the bedroom. "Yeah, right, like _that_ would ever happen."

"Hey, you never know."

"Dean, nothing could make you forget _your baby_."

Dean's fingers constricted around the steering wheel and he cleared his throat awkwardly. "No, there's…there's one thing."

_Oh geez._

The silence in the car, even with Metallica's _Sad But True_ playing in the background, was thick enough to choke a hippo. Chick-flick alarms were going off like air raid sirens in Dean's head but he pushed the warnings aside, his eyes glued to the road in front of them.

He sensed Sam open his mouth to respond but beat him to it. "I'm just…glad that you're ok, Sammy."

"Yeah, thanks to you and Bobby."

"Hey, you did all the work."

"But having you there…made it easier, Dean."

A lump formed in the older man's throat at the completely unabashed sincerity in Sam's voice—there was gratitude there, as if there was _anywhere_ else in the world Dean would've rather been than sitting at his little brother's bedside.

Sam went on.

"Everything that happened, man…the stuff with Ruby and Lilith, going after the wolf solo—"

"Yeah, about that—you ever pull that crap again, I'm shippin' you back to Bobby's in a crate."

Sam barely smiled and paused for only a second. "I keep screwin' up and…I don't know why."

"It's not about screwin' up, Sam."

"Then what's it about?"

"It's about you bein' lied to all the damn time." Dean's eyes narrowed against his will. "It's about you bein' scammed into believing that you're doin' good when you're really not."

"Do you really think that?"

And there it was. The same voice that Dean remembered from years of childhood. The voice of a little brother shyly asking a big brother for his approval...for his agreement.

He couldn't help but sigh. "Look, man, I know that you mean well. Ok? I do. But _Ruby_ doesn't mean well. She's not doin' this outta the goodness of her heart—if she's even _got_ one." Dean muttered those last words quietly and then continued on in a regular voice. "I don't know what her end game is but I know that whatever it is, it ain't good."

"And if she's telling the truth?"

"She's not."

"But Dean—"

"She's not." He repeated the words firmly but he injected an undercurrent of softness only because he knew that Sam would detect it. "You remember what I said to you the night I went to the Pitt? Dad's deal, my deal, then Ruby? It's just strategy to her, man, that's it…just a way to get you where she wants you."

"You don't know that."

"But I know _you_. The Sammy I knew woulda known right away that anything to do with Yellow Eyes was bad news. Using that psychic thing is bad news."

Sam barely moved but his words had the effect of a seismic shift. "Yeah, well, _that_ Sam didn't watch his brother die."

And that _freakin'_ lump was back in throat.

"Yeah, I know." Dean could hear how rough his own voice was but pushed down any embarrassment; after what they'd just been through, they had no time for it. "But I'm here now, dude…I'm not goin' anywhere."

"Promise?"

Sam sounded so much younger than his twenty-six years that Dean couldn't help but give him what he wanted. "Promise." Then after a second, "She's no good, you gotta stay away from her."

Another silence choked the inside of the car but it wasn't as loaded as the previous one. Dean knew without the slightest thought that this new Sam didn't appreciate being told what to do—after all, the guy had been alone for four months, he was used to making his own rules and going his own way. If there was anyone who understood what it was lie to go from hunting alone to hunting with a partner, it was Dean.

When Sam had first left, hunting on his own had seemed impossible. But like everything else it was something he got used to; he didn't _like_ it…but he got used to it.

When Sam had finally returned to the hunt, it had taken weeks before he stopped getting goosebumps at the sound of slow footsteps right behind him…weeks before he got used to his little brother's familiar breathing patterns in sleep and the sound of the shower running at ungodly hours of the morning.

It took weeks for him to get used to hearing his brothers screams again in the middle of the night when he was caught in the throes of a nightmare.

While Dean'd been gone Sam had gotten a little harder, a little colder. It set Dean's teeth on edge to think of his little brother putting in his own stitches or crawling back to the Impala, too injured to carry his own weight.

It didn't matter how old Sam got—he wasn't _supposed_ to put in his own stitches…Sam wasn't _supposed_ to crawl.

No Winchester was _ever supposed to crawl._

He felt his fingers tighten around the steering wheel almost forcefully enough to crack the plastic. It was only after releasing a deep and calming breath that he loosened his hold.

"Dean. Can I ask you something?"

_Uh oh, that question can't lead to anything good.  
_

He simply nodded, knowing that Sam was watching him.

"You know that I really _do_ wanna help people, right?"

That hadn't been what the older brother had been expecting.

It was _so_ unexpected that all he could do was blink stupidly for a moment.

He got his wits back quickly. "Yeah, I know that. No doubt." Dean reached over, affectionately swatting Sam's knee. "Can I ask _you_ somethin' now?"

"Yeah, of course."

No hesitation whatsoever.

God, Dean loved that kid so much.

"Do you trust me?" Dean looked intently at his younger brother, maintaining eye contact as he asked the question, a small sliver of fear in the back of his heart that he might not get the answer he was anticipating.

"Yeah, you know I do." Sam didn't falter in his immediate response.

As relief flowed through him, Dean released the deep breath he hadn't been aware he was holding until the answer spilled from his brother's lips.

Some things never changed.

Didn't matter how stoic he tried to be or how strong he was, he never got tired of hearing his not-so-little Sammy talk like that. He just chose to keep his ridiculous happiness under very strict wraps.

"Look, how 'bout we just…find a motel and take it easy for a couple days? You know? Hole up and watch the Creature Feature, maybe play some pool _for fun_." He smiled fondly. "What do you think?"

It was an offer—an invitation for them to just be _them_. Two brothers on a road trip together who were simply looking for a good time and some well-earned recreation. Nothing more and nothing less.

Sam nearly started vibrating in his seat with obvious excitement.

Because, above everything else, Sam was a little brother and he reacted almost physically whenever his cool big brother said he wanted to play with him.

The kid nodded, his eyes almost comically wide. "Yeah, Dean…sounds great."

And it _did_ sound great.

The last few weeks had been some of the worst in Dean's memory. He knew that the thoughts and images would be with him until the day he died (_again_). Watching his little brother suffer, how could they not stick with him? But he also knew that they'd be _better_—better brothers, better friends, and better partners— because of what they'd been through.

As Bobby had once said to a grieving Tamara, the world had become a much scarier place. Sam's encounter with the werewolf and the resulting poisoning was proof enough of that.

Sam had been lost while Dean had been away, just as Dean had once upon a time been lost without Sam. There were still issues to work through, lies to unravel and trust to be regained, but at least they'd taken the first few steps towards something positive.

Because underneath it all, they were still brothers. They were family.

And if you couldn't stick it out for your family, then you couldn't stick it out for anyone.


End file.
